Chapter 3 Present
Ry stared through the floor to ceiling windows, not quite seeing the city outside.
Moonlight haloed the gray buildings in a silvery-azure nimbus.
Clouds rippled like waves, as if the entire ocean rested above him.
Vision blurred and his heart beat a sluggish rhythm to the pulsing of the waves outside.
He stood, finding a bottle in his hand, and leaned against the glass.
The pulsing grew, like the pressure of the sea could crush him at any moment.
He raked his free hand through his hair to push it out of his face.
Ry wished it would vanish and he would fall through the molasses air to the watery ground below. But he didn’t deserve an easy way out. The pressure built, a vise tightening around his head. Every fiber in him frayed, ready to snap.
He tilted the bottle back, the empty glass clinking against his teeth. Ry yearned for the shared warmth with Brand, the camaraderie and brotherhood with Lon. The ghost of Alex’s hands tangling through his hair, the light brush across his cheek, his quiet strength.
Grunting, he spurned the tempting glass and tossed himself into a chair. The flashing lights and chatter of the news caught his eye for a moment. He raised the empty bottle, tilting it toward the light from the TV, the echo of a swish fractured inside.
Hundreds of Arends laughed at him, distorted sepia visions refracted from the local news. Arend, that vile snake, insisted on being called Uncle by all his “talent.” Unfortunately for Ry and Ghostfire, they were the only band he toured with. The one he’d sold out.
He threw the bottle against the wall, and it shattered into thousands of pieces, each with an Arend mocking his pain. Ry didn’t need to watch the show to know the host fawned over the charming manager, feasting on the lies he spread. Ry knew; he’d partaken himself.
Insistent hammering on his door broke the brooding spell. Ry stood, his clothes sweat-sticky, and answered the door. Brand stood there, face drawn and pale, mirroring Ry's own disheveled state.
Brand, usually so composed, had seemed the most unchanged of all, though he'd become more distant these past couple years.
Ry waved his friend in, backed up, and tripped himself into a chair. He gestured for Brand to sit down. Brand instead paced back and forth on the carpet.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Ry slurred his words.
“Well, fuck.” Brand stopped. “You’re drunk again, aren’t you? Ry, can’t you see what’s going on around you?”
Ry looked around, but found no bottle. Instead, he gestured toward the shattered remnants. “That’s the point of the alcohol, my dear friend. Why? Did we screw something up on stage?”
“Alex is not doing well.” Brand started pacing again.
“What do you mean? He can handle himself.” Ry stared out at the undersea city.
“He’s in the emergency room.”
Blood drained from Ry’s face, leaving him pale and clammy.
The words hammered through the fragile ice he had constructed.
A burning spread through his chest. The accusatory tone, the sheer weight, threatened to drown him in truth he couldn’t face.
His fingertips sizzled in the heat, and a rush of lava churned in his stomach.
“Is he okay?” Ry managed, gripping the chair for support.
“Obviously not,” Brand said, finally taking a seat. “But he’s still alive.”
“What happened?”
Brand gestured to the broken glass on the floor. “That and drugs.”
Ry’s lips twitched to the dull, hollow ache in his chest. “I need to see him.”
“Do you still care?” Brand asked, his voice loud in the room’s quiet.
“When did I stop caring?” Ry whispered.
Ry stared at the carpet. Across the world, the same worn-out carpet seemed to be in every hotel: swirling patterns, usually in muted reds, blues, or golds. Had Alex noticed this as well? How many hotels had they stayed in, blind to each other’s suffering?
“I never stopped loving him,” Ry continued. “Never.”
“And yet, here we all are.”
“It was easier to fight,” Ry said. “If he hates me, it’s easier to live.”
Brand put a hand on his shoulder. “If you’re serious about seeing him, and if you’re done wallowing, let’s go.”
Ry nodded, a dull ache throbbing behind his eyes. He reeked of stale whiskey and desperation. Brand helped him change into jeans and an oversized hoodie, an outfit much less conspicuous than his stage clothes.
The two of them secreted out of the building, away from Arend’s eyes.
Their car arrived moments after they stepped outside.
Brand helped him in, and soon they were off.
They sped toward the hospital, the city lights becoming a vibrant, blurred painting, with the Danube’s cold, dark waters occasionally reflecting the scattered lights.
Only the low hum of the engine punctuated the silence.
The hospital was imposing: a Soviet-era bulwark that offered judgment, not comfort. Brand paid the driver in cash, then led him inside. Brand spoke urgently to one of the staff until a slender nurse frowned at both of them before leading them to Alex.
The air in the hallway hung heavy with the scent of disinfectant and a lingering metallic tang.
His vision blurred as he followed Brand through the labyrinthine corridors, each turn leading to another identical hallway, accompanied by rhythmic beeps of unseen machines and footsteps of unseen nurses.
Eventually, their guide stopped outside a room that looked like all the others.
Ry stopped.
Cool white walls and metal fixtures reflected the harsh fluorescent lights, banishing the shadows to the corners of the room. Alex lay still beneath a pale sheet and blanket. A plastic mask concealed his face, his sun-kissed skin now deathly pale. Damp hair clung to his forehead.
The man in the bed was certainly not the same Alex that Ry knew. The nurse closed the door behind her, leaving them alone in the room.
Brand took a deep breath. “He’s breathing.”
Ry couldn’t speak, not at the moment. That could have been him. Should have been him. Ry shook his head, the world swimming along with each shake. He sat down on a chair near the bed. Brand sat in the other. Lon should be here, Ry thought. We should all be here. He shouldn’t be sick.
Ry looked at Alex. “I always thought he was the stronger one.”
Brand looked at him. “You were the source of all his strength, though perhaps foolishly. Without you, he’s been getting worse. I tried to get you both to drink less, take fewer drugs.” Brand pushed up his glasses. “Only you listened. Alex pretended I had said nothing.”
Ry’s father’s voice echoed in his mind, the scene playing out again.
“It means nothing,” Ry said, though even knew he sounded defensive. “Alex and I can still be together.”
“I’m sure you’ve worked it out. But contracts are politics, and I know politics, son. One or both of you will end up in a hospital, hooked up to machines and fighting for your life. When that happens, you’ll know I was right.”
Royce looked out the window of the estate, the trees in the distance swaying in a breeze.
He stood up and headed to the sideboard to pour two tumblers of fine Scotch.
Ry, having been out of this house for years, felt a little strange at the sudden luxury that reminded him of where he’d come from.
He felt at home, and he hated that feeling.
“Well,” his father said. “To your success, then?” His father raised and drained his glass before setting it on the table. “I suppose that means you’ll have enough income that you won’t be relying on me anymore?”
“He didn’t have anyone else.” Ry took Brand’s hand. “I should have been there for him. Thank you for doing what I couldn’t.”
Brand squeezed his hand, then let it go.
Ry watched Alex for a time. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, the antiseptic air stale and heavy.
Alex, the love of his life, lay still, the shallow rise and fall of his chest the only sign he lived.
An icy dread shivered down his spine. He still loved Alex, a fact branded into his soul.
He had to act. Their being able to be together didn’t matter.
Ry had to speak his heart. A spark ignited within him, a flicker of hope.
He would either save himself or destroy himself.
Exhaustion took over. Though Alex would stay longer, he was at least stable. Tomorrow, they’d visit with Lon.