Chapter 18 #2
My jealousy’s hit a new low. Because now it’s not the molten rage over this messy piece of shit on the floor begging for August’s attention. He’s a rock star. Truly. And he’s stupidly talented. And even if I could take a chance with August, I cannot compete with that.
It’s a crushing disappointment. Shame, even. I don’t think August would have had time to register it had I shown it, especially when, with that first note, he bounces, grabs my arm, and says, “It’s my favourite!”
His joy is ecstatic, pure, and he’s insatiably beautiful.
I can’t get enough of him. I can’t get enough of him dancing against me.
I can’t get enough of him throwing his head back and singing.
I can’t get enough of every inch of him.
And Jon and all my jealousy fades into the background, and it’s August, like he’s the one on stage.
Somewhere towards the end of the set, new drinks arrive, and it’s clear Amber’s going out of her way to make sure I’m having a good time.
She obviously loves August, and even if Shashi’s not too sure about me, she’s been busy enough kissing Amber between songs that I certainly don’t hold anything against her.
They close the set with ‘Someday I’ll be Saturday Night,’ and my stomach scrunches when they say goodnight.
Amber’s up close, on her tiptoes. “Are you coming backstage?”
August answers for me. “We’ll watch it from here.”
“But the encore’s the best bit,” she argues.
He leans in and says something I can’t hear again, to which she nods, squeezes his hand, then leads Shashi away.
That sick feeling’s taking me. It’s been fun, but I know their ‘talk’ is coming.
Maybe August’s going to ask me to leave.
Maybe they’ll talk alone. Maybe he’ll awkwardly tell me he’s going home with Jon, then I’ll go home and spend the rest of the night imagining them together, thinking about what they’re doing.
I have to press my eyes hard to try to push out the images.
“You alright?” August asks.
“Yeah, fine.”
Just about to lose you.
It sinks like a weight around my ankles, down, down, into green then black.
I’m about to lose him. And if there’s any chance of saving this world, if we do the work, if we find a breakthrough, I’ll be saving it without him.
It’s a blinding realisation.
The band’s back, and my heartbeat’s harsher than the strobe light that hits Jon’s enormous hair as he takes the mic and launches into… ‘Cherry Pie?’
August’s laughing and clapping, and everyone around us is having the same reaction. It’s an eighties set, and people are losing their minds.
They do ‘Pour Some Sugar on Me,’ then ‘Kickstart My Heart,’ which draws a super cute grin from August for some reason. ‘Nothin’ But a Good Time.’ It’s outrageous, and it’s so much fun that I can’t help singing along with August, which he loves.
I’ve almost forgotten the horror that’s just around the corner when Jon holds up two hands to quieten everyone.
When he takes up his guitar again. When he announces, “This is the last one. And this next one’s devoted to someone very special to me.
To my heart.” He places his hand over his chest, then yells, “He’s my whole heart!
” And the crowd applauds, falling into his drama.
“August, baby.” He looks dead at him, like he hasn’t once lost track of him during the whole show. “This one’s for you.”
And my only hope, my last shiny jewel of a hope, is that this song sucks.
I didn’t miss the way they all acted about his self-written song upstairs.
If this guy could only embarrass himself, right here in front of August, in front of this whole audience…
I’m sat. I’m watching more keenly than any other person in the room.
But when he hits the first string, it rips straight through my heart.
‘I’ll Be There for You.’ The ultimate I-fucked-up song. The ultimate please-forgive-me song. Here, where everyone can see and hear it, with August’s name all over it.
August’s startled, big eyes, like maybe Jon’s never pulled this before. His lips are slightly parted, deep breaths moving his chest.
Jon sings, all breathy and angsty, and he’s got the whole place in the palm of his hand.
The band joins in, and then everyone’s singing at the top of their lungs.
The lights are shining on Jon and his scarves and his hair, and he’s looking desperately broken, desperately sexy, and August’s staring up at him.
His eyes are hazy. He’s smiling. He’s smiling while he watches Jon, and…
“August.” His name slips from my lips. Like that could ever pull him away from this.
Our name, too quiet, too involuntary, while his ex romances him over the top of it.
He can’t hear me. He’s not even thinking about me. I don’t exist for him. All that exists right now is Jon. Jon and these lights and this song and this perfect fucking moment. And he’s slipping away from me, with every word, with every chord and…
Fuck it.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve grabbed his belt, my fingers threaded over the top of his jeans against his bare skin, pulling him to me. His chest hits mine, his eyes flash shock. I feel the intake of breath over his lips, over mine, only softly before I take them.
His reaction is instant. The rumble of a moan bursts out of him, stifled by my kiss, reverberating in his chest and in mine like it’s alive between us.
His empty cup drops to the floor, and both his hands are running up my back, pulling me in, fingertips pressing through my shirt like he thinks I’d ever try to get away.
I never would. Not for all the world.
His lips open for me and he’s mine. I claim him, every inch of his mouth, his tongue meeting mine with a desperation like it’s the first and last and only kiss either of us will ever have.
And now the music sounds incredible. Now the lights beyond my closed eyelids shine for us.
Me and August. Now the band plays for us.
Now all the world, this one and all the others flinging around in the empty violence of space and time, exist just for us.
Everything exists in the infinite impossibility of space for this one moment.
The sound of the crowd fades to nothing. The music fades. It’s just me and August, and the…
Wait…
August and I break the kiss at the exact same moment with the same horrifying realisation.
The music really has stopped.
The crowd noise really has died because every person in our vicinity is completely frozen. A thousand statues, arms in the air, or mouths open to sing, or about to take a sip of a teetering drink, locked in place.
It’s eerie.
Terrifying.
Then the sharp shock of the mic crackles across the uncanny space, assaulting us with Jon’s, “What the fuck, man, did you just kiss your cousin?”