Chapter 24
MALIK
I stand in my dressing room with my sax cradled against my hip, the familiar weight grounding me as everything else feels just a little too sharp, a little too loud.
The metal is warm under my palm, worn smooth from years of my fingers finding the same spots, the same comfort.
The last couple of days have been a blur of headlines, opinions, applause, and outrage.
Of support and condemnation tangled together so tightly it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.
Julian’s world cracked open in Paris. There’s no gentler way to say it.
The photo detonated faster than anyone could contain it, spreading across timelines and news feeds before the sun had fully risen over the City of Light.
Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, every platform lit up with the image of us in the wings, my hands on his face, his mouth on mine like the rest of the world had finally caught up to something we’d been living inside for weeks.
By the time we landed in Berlin, it was everywhere.
Entertainment blogs, gossip sites, major news outlets picking it up and running think pieces about privacy and queerness and Black masculinity in the music industry.
Reality Records is furious with Julian. Damien Stone has been circling like a shark, angry about optics, about statements Julian refused to give, about the control he’s lost over a narrative he thought he owned.
The label’s publicity team has been in overdrive, damage control meetings stacked back-to-back, phone calls at all hours demanding explanations Julian won’t provide.
Julian’s parents have gone completely silent.
No calls. No texts. Just absence. Weaponized and heavy, the kind of silence that speaks louder than any argument could.
Julian? Well, my heart is still standing and that alone feels like a miracle.
It helps that Cyaire decided to stay in Europe, moving from city to city right along with his brother.
The sight of them together at breakfast this morning, Cyaire’s easy laugh cutting through Julian’s tension, the way Julian’s shoulders dropped just from having his brother close, reminded me how much family can matter when the rest of the world feels like it’s falling apart.
It makes me grieve the loss of my mother even more in times like this.
It’s been years, yet sometimes her death hits me hard and unexpectedly.
“Malik? Are you listening?”
Asha’s voice cuts through my spiral. She’s perched on the arm of the leather couch, long legs crossed, her dark eyes sharp and affectionate as she watches me pace from wall to wall in the small space.
She’s wearing one of her signature vintage band tees, this one faded and soft from years of wear, paired with perfectly tailored jeans that somehow make the whole look effortlessly elegant.
Diedra sits beside her on the cushions, calm and steady, her hands folded in her lap, the kind of presence that makes a room feel safer just by existing in it.
“Huh,” I reply, stopping for just a moment to acknowledge her before my feet start moving again, tracing the same path I’ve worn into the carpet over the past hour.
“You look like you’re about to jump out of your skin,” Asha says, not unkindly. Her tone carries that particular blend of concern and no-nonsense affection she’s perfected over the years of knowing me.
I huff a quiet laugh, running my free hand over my head. “I might.”
She stands and crosses the room in three quick strides, grips my shoulders with both hands, gives me a firm shake that forces me to meet her eyes.
“Whatever happens tonight, it’s history.
This is not about gossip or damage control, but history.
You two are about to walk out there and change everything, for yourselves, for other artists, for kids who don’t think they can be Black and queer and successful.
So, stop spiraling and remember what this means. ”
I nod, swallowing past the knot in my throat that’s been there all day. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.”
A knock sounds at the door, sharp and purposeful.
“Five minutes,” Tracy calls from the other side, her voice carrying that particular urgency that comes with showtime approaching.
My chest tightens. The nervous energy that’s been building all day suddenly crystallizes into something sharper, more focused.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so nervous about a performance than I am right now, and that’s saying something considering I’ve played Madison Square Garden, the Kennedy Center, venues that should have been more intimidating than this.
Julian goes on first as usual, yet I am the one freaking the fuck out.
I know the plan, he’ll play most of his set, establish his rhythm, get the audience warmed up, then we’ll do our duet.
It’s the same structure we’ve used for weeks now, familiar and tested.
I just didn’t know it would feel like this, like watching someone I love step into fire without knowing how badly it might burn.
The minutes tick by with excruciating slowness.
Sounds of the venue filling up bleed through the walls, thousands of voices blending into a low hum of anticipation.
Berlin has been sold out for months, and after the photos surfaced, the energy around tonight’s show has reached a fever pitch.
The crew moves with practiced efficiency outside my door, headsets crackling with updates, equipment checks, the controlled chaos that happens backstage when everything has to be perfect.
I move to the side of the stage as the house lights dim, my sax still cradled against my side like armor.
The roar of the crowd swells, the sound vibrating through the floor and straight into my bones.
From where I stand in the wings, I can see a slice of the audience, faces turned expectantly toward the stage, phones already raised and ready to capture whatever happens next.
Then Julian walks out. He doesn’t speak at first. Doesn’t acknowledge the thunderous applause or the scattered shouts of his name.
He simply sits at the Steinway grand, adjusts the bench with the same precise movements he’s made thousands of times, and lets his hands do what they’ve always done best. The opening notes of his signature piece ripple through the venue, each one crystal clear and perfectly placed, and the audience recognizes it instantly.
They roar in excitement, cheering as he leans into the music, body bending with each phrase like he’s pouring something out of himself he’s been holding too long.
From my vantage point, I can see the way his shoulders settle as soon as his fingers touch the keys. This is his element, his sanctuary. Here, in the music, Julian has always been fearless. It’s only when the music stops that the walls go up.
When the song ends, the applause is thunderous, rolling through the venue in waves that seem to build on themselves.
Julian lifts his hands from the keys, breathes once, deep and deliberate, and leans toward the microphone.
The gesture silences the crowd almost instantly, thousands of people holding their breath for whatever he’s about to say.
“Hallo, Berlin,” he says, voice steady and warm, carrying easily to the back of the venue. “I’m Julian Reed. I’m honored to be here tonight.”
The crowd roars back, a wall of sound that makes the stage lights flicker slightly. Someone in the front row shouts “We love you, Julian!” and the sentiment is picked up and echoed throughout the venue.
He pauses, fingers resting lightly on the keys. I know that pause. I’ve known it since we were kids at Berkland, sitting in practice rooms and dormitories, watching him gather courage for the things that scared him most. It’s the moment before he decides to leap.
“This night is special,” he continues, his voice carrying more weight now, each word chosen carefully. “Because for the first time in seventeen years, Malik Carter and I are sharing a stage again.”
The reaction is immediate and explosive. The applause crashes over the stage like a physical force, and I can see Julian’s slight smile from where I stand, the first genuine expression he’s allowed himself since walking out there.
I feel it before he says anything else. The shift. The electricity crackling through the air. This is it. This is the moment we’ve been building toward, the precipice he’s been standing on for weeks.
“For a long time,” Julian says, his voice cutting through the noise as the crowd gradually settles, “I believed I had to hide parts of myself to survive. I told myself I could be whole if I just stayed quiet enough, careful enough, if I never gave anyone a reason to look too closely.” He pauses, and in that silence I can hear everything he’s not saying, the years of fear, the careful choreography of his public persona, the exhaustion of performing himself instead of just performing his music.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“It took me years to understand that silence isn’t safety,” he continues. “It’s just another kind of prison.”
The venue is so quiet now I can hear my own heartbeat. Julian’s hands rest motionless on the keys, and when he speaks again, his voice is clear and unwavering.
“I’m a gay Black man,” he says. “And I’m proud of who I am.”
The venue erupts. The sound is unlike anything I’ve ever heard, not just applause but something deeper, more primal.
Celebration and relief and recognition all rolled into one overwhelming wave.
People are on their feet, crying, cheering, holding each other.
The noise goes on for so long I don’t think they’ll ever quiet until Julian raises his hand in appreciation of the love they’re showing him, his smile now full and unguarded.