56. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
Icould prepare for a lot, but there is no way I could ever prepare for this.
It has nothing to do with Tom flushing all the pills Evening Glory gave him. I was prepared for that moment and so fucking happy when it came after he talked to his dad. Even happier when he shook ecstasy into the toilet.
“I never took it,” he defended.
“Right, you’re just carrying it around to keep your Adderall company,” I said dryly.
“Exactly. Look, it’s gone.” He gestured toward the hotel toilet in Indianapolis, a smile hooking his mouth. “That deserves applause.” He applauded himself, then motioned for me to join.
“I’m not clapping for you, nepo baby.”
“No?” He gave me this stupidly cute smile.
“No.” I stepped closer, staring at his lips, and I kissed him instead. His smile grew against mine.
Tom proved to himself he didn’t need the drugs after all. Indianapolis ended up being one of our best shows, but on our way to Detroit, Tom crashed hard on the bus. He greeted Nothing Personal with dark sunglasses and a cranky attitude.
“You break your boyfriend?” Birdie asked me with a laugh.
I shoved his arm.
He shoved mine back, and we shared a rising smile.
It took a couple more shows for Nothing Personal to warm up to Tom—once they realized the Cobalt god doesn’t take himself too seriously and his terseness was a one-off thing. Unlike his, my moodiness never goes away, as Scally so lovingly pointed out.
By the time we reach Cincinnati, Steffi and Scally film goofy lip-sync videos with Tom like they’re all long-lost friends. I join in for more than one. Birdie and Neil too.
Having my brother around makes this feel more complete—the dream.
The one we chased after most of our lives.
We might not be playing in the same rock band like we imagined as teenagers, but this is starting to feel like a once-in-a-lifetime kind of tour we’re able to experience together.
Because our bands aren’t just doing well.
They’re exploding.
So fast.
I could’ve never prepared for this.
Our forty-first show in Cincinnati—I walk out to ear-splitting shrieks. It amplifies beyond comprehension when Tom appears beneath blue strobing lights behind me. The walls rattle as the crowd jumps, and Tom belts out our lyrics and mirrors their raging energy.
I throw my body into the beat. Sweat builds faster. I pour water on my chest between two songs, overheating, but we don’t let off the gas.
Tom and I exchange more than one look. His wide eyes say, Holy shit. Mine have to say the same thing because this is fucking nuts.
All the people I can see near the stage—they know every single song we’re playing. Off the entire album.
Tom bends close to a girl—silver streaks down her cheeks, mimicking the ones painted on mine—and she sings “The Arcadian” with him. Tears glass her big, awed eyes and drip down her jaw.
It’s reciprocal. I’m in awe of them.
Not even thinking anymore, I just play and feel the music pulsing within me. I forget how much I used to hate this part. Where Tom steps into the crowd.
He’s never been dropped, but the second they grip his ankles tonight, hands claw up his thighs, his waist. Pulling at him.
Fuck.
I pop up while playing—because Tom is still fucking singing—but he’s being tugged downward by the audience like a swarm of ants gathering over a hill.
Our security hops over the barricade to unearth my boyfriend, and when I lose sight of him completely, I ditch my drum kit and pry my IEM out from my ear.
I hear the shrill pitch of elation as I charge toward the crowd. Sliding off the stage, I’m on the concrete general admission floor, and my ears ring from adrenaline and my past.
Security is clearing a path for Tom.
I reach my arms over the barricade, grabbing Tom while he stretches toward me. I pull him over, hands clawing at both of us. They’re torn off the minute Tom’s feet land on the concrete. We’re in the security pit between the barricade and stage.
He breathes hard.
As soon as he’s safe, oxygen rushes into my lungs. I cup his face, and he nods to me like, I’m good. “You?” he asks, his mic shut off.
“Good.” I nod back strongly, feeling weight release from my body. I’m not as wrecked as when my sticks hit one of our fans.
This is getting easier.
Before we climb onstage, I slap his ass—not thinking. So not fucking thinking. The audience is screaming.
I hear, “OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!” at a piercing decibel. Phones are out recording us. They’re always recording. Tom doesn’t care. He’s laughing into a grin, beating me onstage and whipping the mic cord.
I smile a little and hop back onstage with him.
We exchange a much longer look while I trek to my drum kit. Our secret is alive between us, and it’s unconsciously being teased here and there to our fans.
Tom is eating it up.
He loves toying and taunting, and I wonder if he’ll be satisfied with never confirming our relationship. Of always keeping pieces to himself.
Then again, he’s Tom.
He’ll likely always dream of more.
I don’t care what we do. I just want him and for us to play music together.
Our music.
“Wolfgang St. Pierre, everyone,” he says as I settle behind the drums and twirl my sticks. “Should we do that one again, Wolfgang?”
“OH MY GOD! OHHHH MY GOOOOOD!” I hear before I fit my IEM back in.
I answer with a countdown.
Tom says to the crowd, “Looks like we’re never stopping. Stay with us. All fucking night!” They go wild as he screams into “Your Epidemic” and I thrash against the toms and snare, my foot pounding the kick pedal.
Cincinnati is the last show where the crowd grips Tom’s ankles. We have the audience hold a gym board that he stands on instead. Scally’s idea—which Tom runs with immediately and calls, “Genius.”
“Wow, that rivalry with Nothing Personal really sputtered out,” I tease him. “Almost like it never even existed to be begin with.”
He flips me off.
As we carve our way through the Southeast, these days on tour with my boyfriend, my brother, and my friends become fuel for my soul. The green room before each concert is flooded with bright laughter, silly videos, and sound.
So much sound.
None of us can seem to stop making music, even when we’re not onstage. Birdie has his cello out, and Tom and Scally sing “Thunderstruck” to the melody behind my brother’s bow.
I’ve hated seeing the cello, but in this capacity, I love it.
He brought the instrument on tour to play the cello parts in “Killer Ultraviolet.” My brother comes out for the encore song in every city.
By Miami, Tom and I are feeling the effects of being on the road for so long amid flights back to New York—plus giving a hundred and ten percent at every concert. It’s our fiftieth show, and Tom is doing his best not to get sick.
He’s practically attached to his vocal steamer.
“You have to quit singing ‘Hellbent,’” I say, icing my shoulder. “It’s not an option anymore.”
His reddened eyes meet mine. He’s already stressed about the second album. The one we’re barely working on because during our off days, we’re back in New York—and not always there to hang out with his brothers.
Which is bothering him.
Severely.
He was okay with missing his family’s summer yacht vacation in the Med (yes, a yacht)—but not the little things with Ben.
Like just showing up at the End of the World while Ben bartends.
Just watching some new nature documentary with him.
Just being there in the morning to say hey and slip dried-fruit treats to Ben’s bird.
But Riot has us massively booked with huge media outlets. We’re scheduled to perform on a late-night show next week.
Half of our album is trending. We have five—five songs on the Billboard Hot 100. “Nuclear Winter” is sitting at number six.
It is powerful upward momentum. We fucking took off like a rocket ship, and Tom is trying to block out the voice that says we’re going to plummet if we don’t keep pushing at a voracious speed.
He’s trying.
I know he is. I see it even now, when we’re in the green room in Miami. Nothing Personal is onstage, and he’s just nursing his throat.
He’s not trying to write a song for our next album. He’s not fixated on our socials or opening his emails. Though, I’ve been responding to them for us.
Tom frowns. “How do we even take ‘Hellbent’ out of the set, Phoenix? We don’t have anything to replace it with.”
“Sure we do.” My lips rise. “You had an EP before I came along, nepo baby. How do you think I recognized you the day we met?”
I had no idea what some of his brothers looked like, but I knew of Tom. I listened to his music.
“Let’s play ‘Get Lost,’ off your EP,” I suggest.
He begins to smile. “You think fans will like it?”
“The oldest ones will. For nostalgia.”
The Fourth of July lands us at a huge venue in Charleston.
The staff here are treating us like rock royalty.
There’s a fucking catered spread of artisanal cheeses, roast beef sandwiches, gourmet burgers, and seven bowls of different chips.
We’ve been asked, “Do you need anything else?” about twenty times.
It feels weird. Probably because two months ago, I was fishing dollar bills in a vending machine for stale Doritos.
Before I grab food, I stretch out my sore muscles with a resistance band. The aches and pains suddenly wear off the second Tom speeds over to me with his phone. “Phoenix, Phoenix.”
His panic spikes my pulse. I drop the red band on the floor. “What’s wrong? Tom?” I catch his waist before he can stride past me.
His eyes are plastered to his phone. “Phoenix.” He’s barely breathing.
“Tom.” I pinch his chin and force his sheet-white face upward.
“We got a review.”
I’m about to kill him. “Do not do that ever again. I thought someone died.”
“Dude, I’m about to die.”
“Literal death.” I wrap my biceps around him in a boa constrictor-tight hug because fuck. I never want to lose him. My heart rate slows. I glance down and see his growing smile. Oh my God. “You’re going to keep being dramatic as fuck just so I hug you, aren’t you?”