64. Phoenix St. Pierre
PHOENIX ST. PIERRE
DECEMBER
“Absolute insanity,” Birdie says at LaGuardia. We’re caught in a crush of paparazzi as we stride toward the baggage carousels. Luckily, Tom sent his security for my arrival at the airport, and they bulldoze a path for us.
One week off tour. I’m back in New York for a short stint after what feels like eons. With Nothing Personal’s schedule so tight in Europe, I haven’t been able to come home since early October.
Now it’s the beginning of December. I haven’t physically wrapped my arms around Tom in two months. We haven’t touched. Haven’t kissed. The anticipation of finally seeing him in person and not over a screen has my pulse racing like I’ve been shot with epinephrine.
There’s no way I would’ve been able to sleep on the plane, even if I wasn’t an insomniac.
Birdie and I wait for our luggage to appear on the carousel, and he cringes at several cameras crowding around us, then leans into me to whisper, “You ever notice all these fucks are old men? That’s weird, right?” He mean-mugs an annoying pap behind me.
Flashes ignite around us.
“Put your sunglasses on and ignore them,” I snap in a low octave. I’ve learned from Tom’s family what not to do regarding the media. Acknowledging their existence at the airport is on the list.
This circus is also why Tom and I agreed to meet later tonight. No cinematic reunion at the airport. I’m fine with it.
I wouldn’t even care if we met in a back alley. I just want to see him.
Birdie slides on Ray-Bans and tugs his duffel off the conveyor. He throws mine into my chest before I can grab it. On our way out, I slow down, seeing posters advertising various New York City shows.
Tom’s brother fronts one.
AMADEUS
Eliot Alice Cobalt
as Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
I smile up at an achievement I haven’t seen in person. I’ve heard Eliot’s Broadway performance has opened to raving critical reviews. Tom said tickets are so hard to find that he’s only gone to seven shows so far.
Like that’s a low number.
In his mind, it might as well be one and a half.
He can afford the jacked price, but the scarcity made him feel like he was taking away an experience from someone who should be awed by Eliot. Otherwise, I think he’d pay well over a grand every night to support his closest brother.
I was worried I’d miss out on the Amadeus run, but Tom says the play will extend into next year. It’s too successful not to stay on Broadway.
Once I’m back at my apartment in Chelsea, I wash myself clean of the long flight, brush my teeth, shave, and throw on a Henley and cargo pants from my closet.
I’m stuffing my feet in boots when I listen to a missed voicemail from my mom. “I know you’ll want to see Tom first thing when you land, but please check your mailbox. I sent you something. I love you so, so much. Tell Bird I say hi. Please eat something too. You looked really skinny on the news.”
I mouth, the fuck.
I ask Birdie in the kitchen. “Mom saw me on what news?”
“Some trashy online tabloid, I think. I don’t follow that shit.” He raids the cupboards for anything not expired. “Mom thinks you’re gaunt and bereft. She said you’d probably bust your ass lifting your boyfriend in a Dirty Dancing move. Oh no, wait…I said that.”
“Thanks.” I nod a few times, smiling off his smile, even if it’s at my expense.
“Just that last part was me,” he clarifies. “The rest was Mom.”
“I haven’t played a full set on drums in months,” I defend. “I’m not going to look jacked like I did on The Carraways’ tour.”
“That’s what I told her.” All Birdie finds is a few cans of black beans. Steffi left the mail on the kitchen counter, and I quickly sift through it. Mostly junk, but I find an envelope sent from my mom. I stuff it in my back pocket.
“Later, Bird.”
“Hope you have the best fuck of your life.” Birdie smiles. “And I mean it.” His forearms on the counter, he leans toward me, nodding strongly. “Go make all your dreams come true, big brother.”
Something about those words stay with me all the way to Hell’s Kitchen.
To Tom’s fancy high-rise.
Up to his apartment. 2166.
The door swings open, and I clench my jaw to keep from charging at Tom like a mustang let out of a gate.
His blue eyes sparkle with so much light. I’m inches from his tousled golden-brown hair I want to fist. Inches from his beautiful face I want to hold. Inches from his white long-sleeved tee I want to rip off. Inches from his lips I want to kiss.
“Hey,” Tom says, his chest rising with a sharp intake of breath.
“Hey.” I want him. On him, in him. I need Tom more than I’ve needed anything in my whole life in this second.
He backs up, a smirk edging his face like he already knows what’s coursing through my head. “Starved for me?” He has no fucking idea. His eyes drop to my lips. “Green light.”
I bolt toward him, and we collide like two comets in the sky, my hands sliding along his face. I crush my mouth against his, and the impatient, desperate sound out of Tom’s body feels like a secret chorus. I want my ears waterlogged with those eager noises, with no way to shake them out.
“Fuck, dude,” Tom grips my shirt, gasping for breath.
“Too fast?” I’m walking him backward toward his room while undoing his belt.
“Not fast enough. All gas, all gas, all gas—” His plea melts against my lips, and I drag my hand down his smooth jaw.
We’re in his bedroom when I pinch his chin and tilt his head to the left. A long red mark runs across his jawline. “Did you cut yourself shaving?”
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he pants, pulling off his own shirt, then reaching for mine.
I already begin tugging off my Henley. “I wasn’t? You don’t want to show me every fucking part of you?”
Tom clasps my neck, bringing me so close—my forehead bears into his as he murmurs, “J’en avais autant envie que j’ai envie de toi.” I wanted that as much as I want you.
We’re stripped down and against each other in seconds. Flesh on flesh. Muscle on muscle. I’ve been inside him too many times to keep count. Yet, tonight feels as intense as our first time.
I thrust inside of him from behind, running my hand against his gorgeous back tattoo. A delicate, small pair of angelic wings are inked on his shoulder blades, a line of Roman numerals and numbers dripping between them on his spine.
I can’t even taunt him about being a celestial being I’m fucking.
We’re so wrapped up in each other. My fingers clench his hair, and I bend toward his parted lips, kissing Tom as I drive deeper into him.
Our bodies are slick with sweat, and I have to break off his mouth to let him breathe.
His pleasured noises sound so much more undone than I remember.
He’s been reaching back and holding my thigh, my knees digging into the bed on either side of his naked frame. I seize both of his hands and lace our fingers on the bed. Pressing more of my weight against Tom, I grind into him. Flexing deeper, harder.
“Phoenix,” he cries. “Phoenix, dude. I can’t…I’m…”
I cup his face, our eyes consuming one another, and I’m so in love with him. I’ve never loved anyone like I love Tom. “Je t’aime plus que tout,” I whisper tightly, my body on fire against his body. “Je t’aime plus que tout au monde.” I love you more than anything in the world.
His vulnerable cry out says more than any word could.
Sweaty and satiated on his bed, Tom lies against my chest, and I draw my finger down his spine along the tattooed Roman numerals and numbers. His smile is excited but faintly tired.
“What do you think the numerals mean?” he asks.
“The easiest puzzle you could’ve given me.”
He glares. “It wasn’t supposed to be hard, Phoenix.” I put my hand on the pillow before he even tries to grab it to chuck at me.
“Then you know I’ve already figured out that you tattooed the act, scene, and line numbers from Shakespeare on your back. The ones that inspired our album title.”
He works away a smile, so I know I’m right.
“Trying to match me, nepo baby?” I have the same numbers and Roman numerals tattooed on me.
Before Tom even met me, I had them inked.
All the tattooed numbers on my body are lines to different Shakespeare quotes I love. When Tom found this out, he spent one night researching every portion of my body like I was a college exam.
Even now, his lips quirk, and he traces II.i.243-244 on my thigh beneath an etched angel. From A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream. “I’ll follow thee and make a heaven of hell, to die upon the hand I love so well.”
“Tom?” I whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Stop fighting sleep.”
He keeps an arm around my chest. “You’re spending the night?”
“Yeah, I don’t plan to fucking leave.” I skate my fingers down his back again. His body heavies, and I slide farther down the mattress because he asks, “Will you try to go to sleep with me, dude?”
I’ll try.
My head meets the pillow, my eyes shut, but I don’t really fall asleep.
For some reason, I’m thinking about Bird.
What he said at my apartment. Then the envelope I stuffed in my back pocket.
It’s plaguing me so much that I carefully detangle Tom from my chest, and I crawl out of bed, searching the dark ground for my cargo pants.
Envelope in hand, I quietly—so fucking quietly—climb back into his silk sheets. Tom doesn’t stir. He sleeps peacefully on his stomach, clutching the pillow around his head.
I unfurl the paper, and it takes me two seconds to realize my mom mailed me a letter.
The letter Tom had written my parents.
It’s addressed to them. She must’ve really thought I needed a pick-me-up.
Tom never told me what he wrote them, but I never really pressed hard for details either. As I begin to read, my hand drags over my mouth, and my chest contracts.
Dear Mr. & Mrs. St. Pierre,
You don’t know me, but I really want you to. I know on paper it might seem as if The Carraways existed long before Phoenix, but it was missing the very thing that makes a dream worth chasing. It was missing its heart, and he’s become mine.
I don’t ever want you to fear that he’ll be replaced. Our band has no real life without Phoenix. It only exists in its entirety because of him. It will not breathe, will not survive, will not go on if he’s not a part of it.
I want to take up the whole page to tell you how amazing he is, but I hope you already know since he’s your son. And you’ve had the gift of knowing him for twenty-four years.
I hope to know him for that long. I hope to know him as age tries to take my voice and his hands.
I hope we still make music in the grave.
I hope when you read this, you start realizing that I love Phoenix.
I’m in love with him, and I will take care of him for as long as he’ll allow me to.
You don’t have to worry, but I know you will. Good parents usually still do.
Thank you for loving him and caring about him.
I’ll do the same.
Je le promets,
Tom Carraway Cobalt
I crush my hand over my welling eyes, emotion barreling into me so fast. Tom. Fucking Tom. It’s taking everything in me to stay still and silent. Releasing a staggered breath, I carefully fold the paper into thirds, set it aside on the nightstand, and then I slip back down the bed.
Tom is on his side now. I edge up to him and wrap my arm around his chest. He makes a noise of content, then slides his hand up and down my forearm.
I fall asleep holding him.