Chapter 27
Dmitri
The Mobile show is the loudest we've played so far. The stadium is swollen with bodies, and the collective energy is already pressing against the walls. Gear stands ready, cables coiled like veins across the stage, and we're lingering on the side wing as we wait for the show to start.
Eric has steadied himself since the bus.
His composure is locked back into place, but tension is a low current running just under his skin.
He looks calm to anyone glancing over, with his chin up and gaze steady, but I can read the signs.
His shoulders are set too high, muscles bunched in a way they never are when he's truly at ease.
His hands flex and clench at random, fingers curling tight then loosening as if fighting an invisible grip.
Now and then his head gives a quick, subtle shake, like he's tossing thoughts that won't leave him alone.
I hate it more than I can say.
If I could shoulder the entire load for him, absorb every jagged piece so he could breathe without it cutting him, I'd do it without a second thought.
From across the stage he looks unbreakable. Chiseled jaw and broad shoulders, with that thick frame that radiates quiet power. Posture straight, eyes forward.
He looks like he could face down anything and come out on top—the kind of man who makes people assume invincibility on sight. Tough. Conviction carved into every line. They see him and expect perfection, with no room for faltering or space for weakness.
He is utterly infallible in their eyes.
Men like him have been taught not to bend, and never to break. They've been told you can’t display feelings because it makes you weak.
Boys don’t cry?
Fuck that noise.
There’s so much more to him than the one-faceted view the world clings to.
Beneath the rough, capable exterior everyone assumes is the whole story, Eric is alive with emotion.
He's full of raw, unguarded feeling that spills out in private moments and then gets locked away again.
Full of life, with a heart so fragile it bruises at the slightest judgment.
He's consumed by what others think, and hides every perceived weakness behind that rugged armor he wears like second skin.
In a world determined to harden him, all I want is for him to feel safe enough to be happy.
Although, I suppose I'm okay with him being hard sometimes, too.
“What are you grinning at?” Eric asks as he leans in close, his shoulder brushing mine.
It takes every scrap of restraint not to close the distance, cup his face, and kiss him right here in the wings where anyone could see, but I settle on, “Amped up for the show.”
He nods and smiles back, but a faint glimmer of uncertainty shadows the curve of his lips. He opens his mouth as if to ask more, but the crowd erupts in a fresh wave of cheers as lights sweep the stage.
It’s time.
Apology flickers across his face as he gives me one last quick smile. “Give ‘em hell, superstar,” I say, and then we’re moving, stepping into the roar together.
And give ‘em hell, he does.
The switch flips the instant we hit the stage.
Eric is confident and self-assured, striding to the mic to greet the crowd with that effortless command before signaling us in.
Tonight the playlist tilts heavier, fewer ballads and more metal.
The riffs pound out fast and fierce, pulling the audience to their feet midway through the opening track and never letting them go.
Humidity clings like a wet shroud in the open-air venue, thick enough to taste, and soaking through shirts and hair within the first few songs. Sweat slicks everything—fingers slipping on frets and sticks, while grips tighten to combat the relentless pace.
To anyone watching, Eric seems solid. In control.
No one else would catch the subtle stiffness in his movements, the wooden quality that creeps in tonight, or guess he’s holding pieces of himself back.
But I’ve memorized every line of him, every shift in tension across his shoulders, and the way his body tells the truth when his face won’t.
He barely turns toward me all night. His gaze fixed on the crowd instead, feeding off their energy while keeping his own locked down.
When he drops to a crouch and reaches out, palm gliding over the hands of a few pretty girls pressed against the barrier, jealousy coils sharp in my gut.
I fight it down.
I really do.
This is the Eric the world knows. The man reduced to this bright, brief performance where he’s only a shadow of himself. In private, when the noise fades and it’s just us, that's when he comes out. That's when he's mine in ways no stage light ever touches.
That’s enough.
His voice washes over me like cool relief against fevered skin, deep and textured even amid the chaos. It raises goosebumps, despite the muggy heat pressing in from all sides.
It has to be enough.
Jackson goes largely the same way. We deliver an amazing show, spotless from the first downbeat to the final crash of cymbals, with the crowd feeding back energy that should feel electric.
Afterwards Eric retreats to his phone, scrolling through the growing speculation online and letting the stress swallow him whole.
I’ve lost count of how many times that original post about us has been shared, but more pictures have surfaced of that moment between us, frozen in time and dissected for everyone to see.
Glowing reviews flood in, and more dates sell out until only three shows have tickets left. Most of the comments are positive, with a handful of trolls scattered through like weeds we try to ignore.
But the cloud hanging over Eric’s head dims everything.
Our morning recaps that were once easy and full of laughter now carry a quiet heaviness. He doesn’t say it outright, but the fear is plain—he’s terrified something worse will surface, something that outs him completely.
He’s not sleeping well, and he hasn’t climbed back into my bed since that night.
It’s harder for me to drift off too, lying awake listening to the bus hum while worry gnaws at the edges of every thought about the toll this is taking on him.
He isn’t eating enough and his cheeks have hollowed out, while dark circles have settled under his eyes like bruises that won’t fade.
It drags up haunting flashbacks to those college days when he put distance between us. The memories hit full force as I stand at the tiny sink brushing my teeth, and the mirror reflects back the same quiet dread I felt back then.
I glance down at the tattoos climbing my forearms. A guitar neck on my left arm and piano keys on the right, with enough filled that there's barely any empty space.
My fingertips glide up the images, remembering the pain of the needles piercing my skin over that sensitive strip.
Recalling how it felt to watch those tiny droplets of blood pool over the black ink, and how I had to close my eyes to keep from getting lost in the past.
Even though I’m drained, dog-tired, both physically and mentally, I have to be strong for him. He needs me to help him get through this until he can stand on his own feet again. I won't allow him to sink as low as I did.
The curtain to his bunk is closed when I head to bed, and he doesn't speak, so I give him space. Pitch black darkness surrounds me as my eyes creak open hours later, taking a deep breath and nuzzling my nose into my pillow. Another restless night.
As I’m about to close my eyes and try to go back to sleep, I sense his presence. I push the curtain aside and find the back of Eric’s head. He sits on the ground next to my bunk as his shoulders rise and fall in a steady rhythm.
“Hey,” I whisper, and he startles at the sound of my voice. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
He turns and looks at me, and even in the dark, I can see the weight of the burdens in his eyes. “Couldn’t sleep. Just wanted to be near you.”
“C’mere,” I say as I scoot over, making room for him in this tiny bed. He stares at the spot like he's terrified of it, and the hesitation nearly rips me in half. “Eric, come here.”
He relents, climbing into my bunk and lying on his side so we face one another. My fingers mindlessly chart across his too-hollow cheeks and around the shell of his ear.
He swallows roughly. “I’m—”
“Don’t,” I whisper, tracing over his lips and paying special attention to his Cupid’s bow. “Don’t say you’re sorry or tell me I deserve better.” Those two phrases have made up ninety percent of the soundtrack of his words to me recently.
“But I am,” he whispers. “And you do.”
“We've got one more show and then we get a break for a few days. You’ve exhausted yourself, Eric. You just need to step away from the spotlight and regroup.”
Tomorrow, we play in Birmingham, then we travel to Knoxville to crash at Eric’s childhood home for a few days. I’ve never met his parents, but he insists they're the best people in the world.
Unlike mine.
We stop at my family’s estate in a few weeks, and I already regret the decision. When we first started planning, I thought it would be nice to give us an opportunity to wind down, even if it will be so close to the end of the tour.
“Think your folks will remember me?” he asks.
My smile falters and I’m thankful for the cover of darkness as I recall the conversation with my father when I told him we’d be coming. “Oh, they will,” I answer with a huff. “You were all I talked about for a long while.”
He chuckles, and the sound loosens the knot in my throat, but his humor fades. “Do they know I hurt you?”
My fingers return to tracing their path along his starlit face. It pains me to not tell him the truth, but I can’t put more stress on him. Not while he’s carrying so much and refuses to let me shoulder some of the weight.
I take the coward’s way out instead, and keep my answer vague. “They’re aware we had a falling out.”
“Will they hate me?”
Yes. “No one could hate you, Eric.”
His snort of laughter is louder this time, and I can breathe a little easier. “Plenty of people could hate me. You’re an anomaly.”
“I am a rare specimen, aren’t I?”
Deflect.
“Cheeky ass,” he mutters, and my smile is more genuine as I pull him forward and plant a kiss on his lips. He kisses me back, sweet and slow, lazy almost, until both of us are fighting sleep. He curls into me, pushing his nose against my throat as I wrap my arms around him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the night.
“I’m not.”
His body twitches in those tiny little jerks that tell me he’s on the verge of falling asleep. “I should…”
“No,” I whisper, hugging him tighter and grounding myself with his presence.
Please stay.
Please don’t go.
“Okay,” he whispers, going limp against me. “Your heart’s pounding.”
“I know.”
He’s quiet for so long, I’m sure he’s dozed off. In that hazy limbo between sleep and wakefulness, I can't tell if he's even conscious as he mumbles, “Dmitri? Do you think…”
He trails off and stays silent for a long few moments until his words come out on a single, almost soundless, breath.
“Do you think I love you?”
If I thought my heart was pounding before, it’s nothing compared to the rapid thumping against my sternum at that question. “What’s not to love?” The words lodge in my throat, splitting into pieces as they leave me, but his steady breathing tells me he’s sound asleep.
Deflect, deflect, deflect.