Chapter Text
Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.
Richard Siken
November 19, 1980
— Lincoln, Nebraska —
Memorial Stadium
“50 seconds to stage. Where’s Michael?”
“Probably getting drunk. It’s a big arena,” Crowley mumbles, raising his own flask to his lips before picking up his drumsticks, the edges already faded from how worn they’ve gotten. “It’s not the first time, Chuck. He’ll be here.”
“40 seconds. Seriously?”
Meg’s leg bounces up and down as she makes sure all the knobs on her guitar are in place. Crowley goes out on stage to check if the microphones set up for his drums are in working order, and the crowd screams his name. Meg wonders how they can even see him in the near-dark. She’s in the curtains and she can barely make out his silhouette.
“Fuck’s sake, call the bastard,” Meg says, rolling her eyes.
Chuck’s assistant, some blonde girl called Becky Rosen, brushes past the band, calling out, “30 seconds!”
Outside, the fans are starting to chant the band’s name, no doubt also aware that the night’s show is about to begin. Lilith adjusts her feathered fringes in the reflection of her pocket mirror as she says, “If he turns up high, I’m gonna whack him with my guitar so hard he’ll never need to get high again.”
“20!”
“Screw it. We’ll do the show without him,” Meg grumbles, grabbing her guitar and slinging the leather strap over her shoulder. She checks her makeup one more time and takes her place on the stage. Crowley scans backstage—no sight of their singer.
“Cut the house lights!” Chuck calls out to the lighting girl. He turns to Crowley, Lilith and Meg and says, “I already sent someone to find him fifteen minutes ago. Nothing we can do now if he can’t be found. Meg, you take over vocals.”
“3, 2, 1… Break a leg, you guys,” Becky says as Chuck disappears backstage. The lights come on and Lilith plays the riff she plays at the start of every show to get the audience amped up.
They’re already loud, then they get louder, and they realise that someone has run onstage.
Michael turns his face up to the neon lights and his hands open at his sides. This never gets old.
He takes the microphone off of its stand and shouts into it, “Good evening, Nebraska! How are you doing tonight?” The crowd responds with screams that has Michael glad that they were given earplugs before every show. It made the sound muddy but at least he could still hear his own voice after the gig. “Right, we’re gonna play a couple of songs for you, sound good?” They scream in excitement once more and Lilith and Crowley jump into the opening beat of Flight Risk with the bass guitar and drums.
Meg moves closer to Michael, fingers ready on the beginning chord of the song, and hisses, “Where the hell were you?”
“Does it matter? I’m here now, right?” Michael replies, flipping the microphone in his hands as he starts to sing. “Baby, I’ve tried lying before. I don’t like your contradictions but I fucking love your odds.”
“That’s not how it goes.”
“What are you talking about? Of course, that’s how it goes. I came up with the fuckin’ tune, jackass,” Meg mutters around her cigarette, lazily getting her bass guitar in tune as she sits up in her chair. Her leather jacket stretches over her shoulders as she gets into position, once again strumming the same three chords from the fifth track on their setlist for the new tour, The Empty.
They’d released a self-titled album, Give Up The Ghost. With Michael as the designated frontman since he was the lead singer, Meg, Crowley and Lilith were all in favour of having the band name be related to his biblical counterpart. The four of them pored over every page of a copy of the bible that they got from a hotel room, underlining phrases they liked best. Ultimately, they were agreeable on “give up the ghost”.
To give up the ghost means to die. Michael thinks it’s fitting.
“That sounds more like it,” Lilith says from the table, her pencil loudly scratching rough paper as she works on lyrics for their next album. All of them wrote music for the band, but most of the songs that the band has put out are Michael’s or Crowley’s, mainly because they were a bit more eloquent. While Michael wrote about heartache, Crowley wrote about satisfaction. Meg writes about wrath and Lilith writes about chaos and rebellion.
“It was already accurate,” Michael mutters, reading over the title he had written down at the top of the page for a new song: Garden of Eden. “You’re all picky over nothing.”
“Thank you!” Meg says loudly. “Finally, someone here who actually knows what the fuck they’re talking about.”
Garden of Eden
Michael’s pen taps mindlessly on the top of the notepad, the title of the song staring back at him with an audacity that makes him want to hurl the pad across the room and knock off the vase of flowers Crowley’s mother put in the tour van. Already, the pointless light-hearted bickering of his bandmates was getting to Michael because his girlfriend is coming to visit them in a matter of minutes.
The problem with the said girlfriend is that, while wordlessly gorgeous with a mind-melting British accent and a smile that will numb the pain of any soul, Michael didn’t feel the gravity of her stunning features. He didn’t love her—at least, not in the way he should if she was his girlfriend.
Needless to say, all his love songs about heartache and yearning have never been about Bela Talbot.
Michael is gay. He wasn’t sure if he wanted anyone to know despite how lonely it made him feel. In times like these, stardom was the only shield against being killed for the fact and though he knew his name could fill arenas of over 10,000, he still didn’t feel like he was ready. His only source of consolation was the fact that Crowley was more outward with his attraction to people regardless of gender and was doing just fine, at least for their time.
Eventually, the loneliness won out and he sought comfort in Crowley who readily offered his company for the nights when it gets too desolate, though Michael always felt a little empty afterwards. Not because he regretted it, but because he didn’t love Crowley either no matter how many times he went back to his bedroom. The escapades held no meaning to Michael, and while Crowley liked joking about some of Michael’s songs being about him, they really weren’t.
The truth is, Michael has never been in love. He’d never let himself because he thinks it will hurt more than if he was alone—with a mother who thought their father was insane and walked out on them after shipping him off to a mental institution, Michael doesn’t know the first thing about what it’s like to be loved. He didn’t know how to love someone back, and he sure as hell had no idea how to fall in love and allow himself to be loved in return.
He writes about love all the time and either sing the words in small basements where the ceiling leaks onto creaking stages and there’s barely a hundred people or he will shout them until he’s crying on the stage in front of thousands. Yet, ironically enough, love was entirely foreign to him. He’s not even sure if he’s capable of feeling it, and unsure whose fault that is exactly.
He scribbles dark angry lines across the title and replaces it with another:
YOU ARE NOT YOUR OWN
Michael huffs a cynical laugh to himself. He has never belonged to himself. He never will.
“I think Fantastic Bastards and Flight Risk should switch places on the setlist, it's hard to play them in the order they've been in,” Crowley suggests. “What do you think?”
“Do whatever you think is best,” Michael answers, not looking up from the paper in his hands. “I don’t care.”
Lilith scoffs. “Someone’s got an attitude.”
“I don’t have an attitude.”
“Whatever,” Crowley mumbles, not in the mood for a pointless argument over a half-assed answer. Sure, a setlist is important, but Michael also doesn’t care. The song’s still going to be played by the end of the night so the order never mattered to him. Plus, the order changed every other show. There’s no point in even discussing what arrangement was best. “What’s the next city after this one?”
“Kansas. Wichita, I believe,” Michael says, narrowing his eyes at the ceiling as his memory pulls up the hazy memory of the list of shows on their tour flyer. The flyer itself really only looks good in black and white, an opinion shared by his brothers Castiel and Gabriel, but their manager Chuck also had the flyer printed in duotone, some overly saturated shades of red and yellow that looks ugly as shit. He can’t believe Chuck let those be printed and distributed—it’s an embarrassment.
“And then after?”
“That’s the last one,” Meg says.
Crowley’s eyebrows rise, bewildered and almost offended. “Who the hell closes a tour in Kansas?”
“Shit, ask Chuck. How should I know? I sing. I don’t plan the tours,” Michael grumbles, getting up from his chair and running a hand through his hair. It’s not his fault Chuck is a dumbass with the tour arrangement. He’d have loved to close the tour at Bills Stadium in New York. An audience of just under 72,000—talk about going out with a bang. Michael’s giddy just at the look of that tremendous number.
But no, they had to close in God damn Kansas. In a 5,000 capacity venue like Hartman Arena. Jesus Christ.
“Hello, Michael!”
Michael winces—Bela has arrived, dressed in the latest Benetton suit. Bela Talbot is a well-known actress that Michael met at an awards show a year prior. She’d asked him out for a drink and Michael agreed out of panic. He didn’t want to date her, but he was tired of interviewers asking him if he was queer, even if the answer was yes.
It’s ridiculous, really; wearing eyeliner on stage shouldn’t mean he wasn’t a heterosexual. Michael Jackson does it, but it’s such a problem when Michael Novak does.
He shoves the thought out of his mind and gives Bela a practised smile. “Hey.”
Bela kisses his cheek, and Michael wishes he can get the hell off of this planet.
November 21, 1980
— Wichita, Kansas —
Black Rose
Colorado is nothing short of energetic in the small space of Paramount Theatre. The venue can only seat about 1,870 people which is honestly an insult compared to other bigger venues they’ve played over their tours like the Hollywood Palladium or Freeman Coliseum in San Antonio. Still, Michael takes what he can get. 1,870 people are better than no people, and they proved it with their enthusiasm during the show.
The band and Bela decide to celebrate that their tour is almost over by going to a club in Wichita, Black Rose, and get wasted. Maybe Crowley will score them some blow.
Black Rose isn’t that big a club, which means by the time they get there at 2 in the morning straight off their tour bus, it’s bustling with movement and sweat, bodies reeking of alcohol and ecstasy. Bela clings to Michael’s arm so as to not get lost in the crowd, and she shouts above the noise, “Are you excited for tomorrow’s show, babe?”
Michael gives her a smile—sure, he may not love her romantically, but she was still a dear friend. “I am.”
Crowley rolls his eyes, and Michael calls out to the bartender to open up a tab under his name. He tells the women that all their drinks are on him tonight, then he excuses himself to the bathroom. Of course, Crowley follows.
They’ve gotten good at reading each other. Michael’s not sure he’s comfortable with that.
Bit by bit, Michael navigates the dancing crowd to get to the bathroom. Ladies Night by Kool & The Gang plays loudly on the speakers, the vibrations able to be felt through the soles of his shoes, but even the sensation didn’t alleviate a disagreement he knew was going to happen once they reach the privacy of the bathroom.
He pushes open the door, looking around it to make sure it’s empty—it is. A few seconds later, Crowley comes in and locks the door of the bathroom behind them, asking, “What’s wrong?”
Michael turns around, and his hands feel cold. “I’ve been thinking.”
“Can’t be anything good.”
“Yeah,” Michael says, folding his arms—he remembers reading in some tabloid that it’s body language that makes him seem closed off. He doesn’t mean to be cold, but the situation isn’t warm either, and the thin light of the bathroom paints a sickening colour on their faces that fills him with dread. “I think we should stop.”
Crowley freezes. “Why?”
He wrings his hands together, watching the skin at his knuckles fade to a cowardly white. “Because… aren’t you sick of it? All the hiding, all the secrets. I’m tired of—I’m exhausted, actually. I’m done, I’m not hiding anymore.”
“Then don’t,” Crowley says, and it sounds so simple when he puts it like that. Then don’t, like he can walk out of that bathroom and kiss Crowley stupid, make whatever point he wanted to make. Tell the whole world that he is unafraid of what they have to hurl his way.
Michael can’t help the bitter laugh that erupts from him. “It’s not that easy.”
Crowley’s eyes track Michael’s movement, the way the corner of his mouth rises with cynicism. “Why not? I do it.”
Turning sharply to Crowley, Michael says, “Because you and I are not the same!”
The other man’s eyes narrow, clearly put off by the remark, and Crowley questions with the beginnings of offence, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Michael sighs, not wanting to have to deal with a conversation like this. When they’d agreed to their “arrangement”, it had been so uncomplicated. He’d assumed getting out of that arrangement would be just as direct, but apparently not. “It means that I’m not you. I’ve never been like you, I actually care what people think about me.”
Crowley’s glare softens at that, but his tone is still a little biting as he says, “This again, you and your incessant need to be seen as some perfect, good son. Michael, if you would just give up the bravado—if you would just be true to yourself… You know, you’d never have to be perfect around me, but you want to walk out.”
Michael’s stare pulls up from the dirty bathroom tiles to Crowley’s face. “Don’t put that on me. That’s not fair.”
“Not fair?” Crowley echoes incredulously, his eyebrows rising to his hairline. “You’re the one who just wants to fuck and leave.”
“Isn’t that exactly what we both signed up for?” Michael questions, confused and exasperated, and barely able to breath in this small space. “We said it was just sex.”
Crowley laughs, the sound a sharp burst from him that makes Michael wince, and he asks, “Jesus, how have I never realised that you have always been so oblivious?”
Red hot frustration flares deep within Michael’s chest and he exhales tightly. “What?”
Crowley visibly reconsiders his next words, as if trying to predict how Michael will take them. Deciding it’s worth the risk, he declares, “I am in love with you, for fuck’s sake.”
Time keeps moving. Michael feels himself speed up, though he is still grounded in the same spot he’d been in the whole time. I am in love with you—no, Michael can’t do this, because the bass from the music is reverberating in the walls, and they are closing in around him, and he suddenly can’t breathe.
He forces the words out of his throat, and they are said with ugly rejection. “You’re lying, you just don’t want me to call this off.”
Crowley throws his hands up, taking a step closer. Michael takes one step back. “Why the hell would I lie about that? If I didn’t want you to call this off, I’d just tell you.”
His hands catch onto the edge of the basin. “Then why are you telling me this?”
“Because it’s true!”
Michael slams a hand down on the basin—the sound echoes in the marble. “No, it’s not!”
Crowley moves closer and he’s now next to Michael. He can hear both of their breaths—Crowley’s are deep, and Michael’s are harsh. When Crowley starts talking, it’s exhausting. “Fucking hell, Michael. Have you ever thought that maybe you’re the one making things hard for yourself? You complain—You always write songs about people never loving you but the moment someone does, you shut down. What, do you genuinely think you don’t deserve to be loved or is this some mental game you play on people who love you? Maybe that’s what you’re tired of, not the hiding.”
Michael drags in a breath, trying to recollect his temper. “Crowley, I’m not playing games. It’s just not as easy for me as it is for you.”
“Yes, because you think nobody fucking loves you,” Crowley says, irony filling him like lead poisoning. “Well, there’s a pretty young Hollywood Brit sitting at the bar who can prove you wrong. There’s me. There are the fans that will be screaming for you at tomorrow’s show.”
Michael trails off uselessly, “It’s not…” Unable to find the right words to properly articulate what’s in his mind, he turns back to the mirror, staring at himself past fingerprint smudges, dried water stains and one lipstick imprint, bold crimson. He looks terrible.
Crowley says, his voice sounding like the audible embodiment of burying someone alive, “You’re just scared at the idea of somebody loving you because then it means you have to show up.”
Maybe Crowley did bury him alive with those words, but Michael has never been the kind to stay under the ground without a fight. At least, not this fight.
He turns to him, and there is a fire in his veins. “What the fuck does that mean?”
Crowley doesn’t back down. “It means that you are a selfish bastard and that you break hearts to feed your ego. You just love the attention. When people love you, you leave, you always do. I know you surely won’t be putting a ring on Bela anytime soon. She will be another in a long line of hearts you demolish.”
Michael shifts, his face inches away from Crowley as he stares him down. “I don’t leave. I don’t ‘break hearts to feed my ego’. Don’t accuse me of shit I don’t do.”
Crowley’s mouth lifts in a sarcastic smile. “Oh, but you do.”
“Crowley—”
“You break my heart every day, Michael, and yet I’m still here. I truly wonder why,” Crowley says.
Michael finally puts some distance between them. “Don’t do this. At least not now.”
“Why not now?”
“Because we’re in a fucking disgusting bathroom of a nightclub at 2 in the morning!” Michael snaps. “And you know nothing good happens at 2 AM.”
His voice dropping to a private tone, Crowley says, “Then let this be the first.”
Michael presses his lips together, and he can’t look at Crowley. “Crowley, I don't love you.”
Crowley nods once, accepting, and says, “Fine.”
Michael raises an eyebrow. “Fine?”
“I don’t need you to love me back.” Crowley shrugs carelessly. “I know you don’t feel the same. I never asked you to and I don’t need you to. I’m perfectly fine with things as is.”
Michael can’t figure out what’s going on in Crowley’s mind, but it’s 2 in the morning and he’s tired and just wants to go home. “Are you playing the long game or something?”
"Have you ever known me to be the type?”
Michael ponders it. “No.”
“Exactly,” Crowley says, gesturing in a way that says ‘that’s my point’. “I’m just making the most of a bad situation.”
Michael’s gaze follows Crowley’s face as he glances at himself in the mirror. “It’s only more reason not to keep going.”
Crowley smirks, and he regards Michael with suggestiveness. “You really don’t have to be considerate.” He steps closer and pulls Michael in by his tie, kissing him roughly.
By instinct, Michael returns it, pressing Crowley up against the bathroom stall door to kiss him before he realises what’s happening. He pulls away, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while Crowley grins loosely.
“Seriously,” Michael mutters. “It’s over.”
He turns to the basin and runs the tap, splashing his face with water and looking at his reflection once more. Behind him, Crowley disappears behind the stall door. Water trickles down Michael’s face, and his tie is crumpled where Crowley grabbed him.
He leaves the bathroom before Crowley can come back out.
Back on the dance floor, the song isn’t Ladies Night anymore but instead Victoria by The Kinks. Michael likes the band and the song, so at least it’s a bit of a pick-me-up after the dreadful conversation.
He doesn’t understand Crowley at all and probably never will, this much Michael knows. He shifts uncomfortably in his leather jacket, trying to spot any of the women. No luck, though a server carrying a tray of drinks walks past him. Michael silently takes one of the glasses off the tray, lifting it to his lips to taste the alcohol.
It’s good.
“From the rich to the poor,” Ray Davies’ voice pours from the speakers. “Victoria loved them all.”
Michael stares down at the orange alcohol in his glass, feeling what little he drank burning as it goes down his throat. The overly saturated lights gleam in the drink, reflecting onto his face. Faintly, it reminds him of the stained glass in a church. The crucifix necklace rests heavily against his chest.
Sighing, Michael looks back up and squints into the crowd. No sight of Bela, Meg, Lilith or even Crowley. Not even their security team was within view—Chuck will probably fire them tomorrow morning.
He searches face after face in the mass of moving bodies, and his eyes force his gaze back to one particular person.
Right as the chorus hits, there, in the middle of the dance floor, sweaty and smiling and achingly stunning, a boy with hair of gold and eyes of diamonds.
Time stops. Michael slows.
God, he is beautiful.
He grins at who Michael assumes is his friend, and lip-syncs—maybe he’s singing? It’s impossible to tell with all the noise—but his lips are moving and his eyes are pure ecstasy. He sways with the music, taking the hand of the redhead girl with him to spin her around. She almost bumps into someone holding a shot glass and his eyes widen, mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ shape. He laughs—Michael cannot hear it, but he feels it.
Michael’s brain throws a new lyric at him: It’s two in the morning and I’ve found peace in the sun.
He’ll write it down later. Right now, his chest is too loud. The music is too loud, actually, and the glass is too cold. The alcohol in him burns, and that boy is so beautiful, and Michael can’t breathe.
He forces his stare away, looking down at his drink. After the argument with Crowley, Michael has become overly self-aware in regards to who he really is, and he knows he should just call it a night and leave Black Rose if he knows what’s good for him, but fuck, if that boy isn’t damn beautiful.
His legs make the decision for him—he starts trying to get to the exit, but there is a remix of Come And Get Your Love playing that has everyone dancing, pushing him in the wrong direction. He tries to go against it, reach the door, because a boy who likes boys is a dead one—
Michael sees diamond eyes and golden hair, and all is forgotten.
He smiles in a way that clenches in Michael’s chest and asks above the music, “Do you dance?”
“No,” Michael answers. His eyes actually have a bit of emerald, if Michael looked close enough.
“Why not?”
“I’m not the type.”
He smiles, and it’s the kind that is sweet and priceless. “Well, maybe I can change that.”
Heaven Must Have Sent You starts to reverberate through the club, Bonnie Pointer singing, “Then you came into my lonely days with your tender love and sweet ways.” The guy grins, dancing in time with the beat, and now that he’s so close, Michael knows that he was only lip-syncing to the music.
“Now, I don't know where you come from, baby. Don’t know where you been now, baby,” the man mouths along, dancing so closely to Michael that if he held his own breath, he might feel his. “Heaven must have sent you into my arms.”
He tugs on Michael’s jacket just slightly, yet Michael felt the full gravity of the movement. He grins, continuing to lip sync as he steps back to let the music control his body. “Heaven must have sent you, baby, into my life.”
Michael, impulsively, decides that it’s a damn club at 2 in the morning, and clubs are where the hated go to find some repose, so if he can’t do whatever he wants here then he will never get to.
So he dances with the boy because nobody is going to stop him.
“Thank you for holding me close.”
The song slowly pulls to a close and Michael’s about to ask him for his name, but then Lilith chooses that moment to show up. She grabs his arm in the crowd, shouting, “Hey! We’re leaving! Come on!”
Fuck, not now, Michael thinks. The next song blasts on the speakers, loud and rowdy, and Michael’s not confident that the man will be able to hear him. Michael suddenly remembers the flyer he’d shoved into his jacket earlier that day and clumsily reaches for it, holding it out to the man before Lilith finally pulls him away.
Michael shouts, hoping he can hear him, “I sing for them! It’s tomorrow!”
Then he’s shoved through the door by Lilith and Michael loses sight of those diamond eyes.
Outside, Crowley already has a lit cigarette between his lips, and he turns away when he makes eye contact with Michael. Meg rolls her eyes, muttering, “Finally. Alright, our security left so Chuck wants us back at our hotel.”
“If they were gone, we could have stayed at least a minute longer,” Michael grumbles, but he doesn’t argue any further. If anything is meant to happen, the boy will show at the gig tomorrow. It’s all up to chance now.
November 22, 1980
— Lawrence, Kansas —
Harvelle's Roadhouse
“Really, Lois, we’ve got to stop meeting this way!”
Adam smiles imperceptibly as he clears the trays off the table, listening to his brother read out his lines from the script of his new movie, Superman II. Dean works as an actor—he’s a pretty famous one, which means that with all the different sets around the country he has to go to film various films, Dean is rarely in Kansas. Now that they’re only in pre-production, Dean could fly back to Kansas from New York and spend some time with his younger brothers.
In a higher-pitched voice, Dean reads out from a different page, “Be more aggressive, Clark! Trust your instinct! When you see your opportunity, grab it! I do.”
“Are you sure you’re allowed to read that in front of me?” Adam asks, adjusting the collar of his uniform. The Roadhouse employees all wore the same pastel blue uniform with white circular plastic name tags, tacked above the breast pocket by a safety pin, and black slacks. When Ellen is in a bad mood, she makes them wear the ugly hat that Adam’s 86% sure has been eaten by moths.
“I don’t really care. It’s Superman, Adam. Everyone knows Superman,” Dean says, putting the script down and looking up at his little brother. “Someone’s got a spring in their step.”
He does, actually. Yesterday, Adam had gone to Wichita to celebrate Charlie being hired for Dean’s movie as an editor. There, they had gone to the nightclub Black Rose to get tipsy.
There, Adam danced with the most dashing man he’s ever seen. With alcohol in his system, he’d had the courage to tell him he could change his mind about dancing, and the most exciting thing was that this dark-haired beauty did indeed end up dancing with him. Adam saw those azure eyes in his dreams that night. He’d almost dropped the glass he was cleaning when Heaven Must Have Sent You played on the jukebox at work this morning.
The man left before Adam could ask his name, though he’d pressed a red-and-yellow-coloured flyer to his chest and shouted that he sang for them and that they’re performing tomorrow, which was now tonight.
Adam danced to a love song with a handsome rock star last night. Holy shit.
He tries and fails to bite back a grin. “No, I don’t.”
“Yeah, you do,” Dean says, amused. Folding his arms on the table, he asks, “What’s going on?”
Adam rolls his eyes but reaches into his breast pocket to pull out the folded flyer for the Give Up The Ghost show tomorrow night. He passes it to Dean, requesting, “Will you please go with me?”
Dean glances only at the date before he frowns. “I don’t know, man. I gotta memorise the script. Why don’t you ask Sammy?”
Adam gives him a pointed look. “You know Sammy has wedding planning.”
Flapping a hand once in a dismissive way, Dean says, “Jess won’t kill him for one night. He can let one night go.”
Wryly, Adam says, “So could you.”
Dean grins. “Touché.” He picks up the flyer again and really looks over the red and yellow duotone print. His finger grazes over the band’s logo and he says, “I’ve heard of this band. Didn’t know you liked them.”
Adam shakes his head, explaining, “I danced with the singer at that club I went to yesterday.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “Danced? What, did you go to the queer one with that pink drink?”
Adam stares at him. “No, Black Rose.”
Dean smiles, unconvinced. “Sure.” He flips the flyer back around so it’s now facing Adam and points at the lead singer—in the photo, his dark brown hair is pushed off his face by a hand, his other hand gripping the microphone. His jawline is sharp and the stage light casts a stark shadow down his neck, and he gives a look to the camera that renders Adam unable to stare at the flyer for longer than a minute. “You met him?”
“Yep.”
Dean pulls an impressed face, looking at the photo again. “Not bad, brother. You’ve got taste.”
His cheeks heat up, and Adam’s not sure if it’s from jealousy or embarrassment. “Dean, please. You’ve got what’s-his-name.”
“His name’s Aaron, man. And that was over when the director called cut,” Dean clarifies. “And whatever. This Michael guy’s too young for me, I think. Definitely your ballpark, though.”
Horrified, Adam says, “Dean.”
Dean laughs and Adam turns away, busying his hands with wiping a dirty stool at the counter, and says, “What? If he danced with you, he probably likes you too.”
“You forget that we’re in the 1980s.”
“A dance is still a dance no matter what decade it is,” Dean says. “And so what? I sure as shit don’t care who I dance with, and I’m not getting crucified, am I?”
Adam leans against the booth’s table, giving Dean one of his flatter looks. “Because you’re famous. Like Freddie Mercury, Bowie, Elton John. That BBC guy, Stephen Fry or something. Of course, nobody’s trying to crucify you, you’re too famous to touch. Dean Winchester, the Academy Award winner, sleeps with a male co-star. People will make a quick buck over the headline but nobody’s gonna make a scene about it.”
Dean rolls his eyes, scoffing as he folds the flyer back in half along the dented lines from when Adam folded it. “My current director does. Roman keeps telling me if I gotta do it, at least keep it in my bedroom.” Quoting Rhett Butler from Gone with the Wind, Dean recites, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”
Adam sighs, staring forlornly at the crack in the ceiling. “I wish I could be more like you.”
Encouragingly, Dean says, “You don’t have to be more like me. You just have to be yourself. If you like this guy, go to his show tomorrow. Look, you know what? I’ll go with you.”
Discouraged by his own words, Adam starts to retract the invitation. “It seems like a bad idea now, maybe I shouldn’t.” He hadn’t thought this through—what was he even going to say to the man at the show? That he assumed he was queer because they danced at a place where people dance? Did he even want to see him or was he just trying to get more people to listen to his band? What were the chances that the singer will even see him in the first place? It’s an arena full of screaming fans and strobe lights. He and his band will probably be dancing and moving across the stage. Adam will only be a blur in the crowd.
As if answering some of Adam’s prayers, Dean says, “Oh, come on. I’ll get us backstage passes so you can talk to him. You two could go out after the concert, get a drink. You know, Lee’s bar is open late. He’ll give you drinks on the house, just tell him you’re my brother.”
Adam shakes his head, walking back behind the counter to get a rag to wipe the tables down. “No, I wouldn’t know what to do. He’ll be busy—the flyer says they’re touring, he’s not gonna be in Kansas for long.”
“Maybe he’ll ask you on the tour with him,” Dean suggests, smiling cheekily.
“This is real life, not one of your romance movies,” Adam says, grabbing the rag off its hook.
“You never know. He kinda looks like the romantic type,” Dean comments off-handedly. “Maybe he’ll take you on a drive or something.”
Adam laughs sarcastically.
Dean stands to follow Adam as he makes his way around the diner, talking as he walks. “Adam, it doesn’t matter what people think, okay? They’re some close-minded sons of bitches. They’re not important. If you like him, go get him. It’s that easy. If I cared what people thought about me, I wouldn’t have my life right now.” He tucks the flyer into his pants pocket, saying, “I’ll get us the passes.”
Adam pauses in wiping down the surface of the table, asking, “What do I say when I see him?”
“In my experience, your name and your number,” Dean says in good nature. “Seriously, though. This one time in high school, I forgot to tell this girl my name and we were both pretty out of it so face details were questionable. Big mistake, man. This other guy ended up pretending to be me and dated her instead.”
“No way. That’s hilarious.”
“It’s embarrassing,” Dean complains. “But you see my point. I’ll get us tickets by tonight and I’ll have someone drive us to Wichita. You’ll be in time for the show.”
Adam sighs. “Thanks, Dean. Hey, maybe you’ll meet someone there.”
“I doubt it,” Dean chuckles. “Plus, Roman wants me to stay single the whole time Superman’s gonna be in production. He thinks if the press believes Bela and I are a couple like Clark and Lois, it’ll get more people to the cinemas.”
Adam frowns in thought, looking up at the ceiling. “Doesn’t Bela Talbot have a lover?”
“That’s her agent’s problem, not mine,” Dean shrugs. “I’ll see you tonight, little brother. Dress up a bit, yeah? Get Charlie to choose something for you.”
— Wichita, Kansas —
Hartman Arena
Dean manages to bargain for two backstage passes with Give Up The Ghost’s agent through Dick Roman, getting the passes in exchange for agreeing to star in a future music video for the band. The venue in Wichita that they’re playing at, Hartman Arena, is already overflowing with fans. There are people wearing the band’s shirts, holding cassettes and vinyl for the band to sign later.
Adam feels a bit out of place, not donning a single piece of merchandise. However, neither is Dean, who’s wearing sunglasses in a half-hearted attempt to stay hidden. It helps that he’s not the only one not dressed for the show.
“Mr Winchester?” A blonde woman asks, coming up to them. Adam snickers—the disguise isn’t working at all—and Dean gives up, taking off the glasses and flashing the woman an expectant smile. She continues, “I’m Becky, Chuck Shurley’s assistant. I was informed by Chuck that you and a plus one have backstage passes. I was sent to bring you backstage.”
“Thanks,” Dean smiles politely, and Adam and he follow her as she expertly navigates the bustling crowd trying to enter the venue and get to their places. She manages to get them there and even outside the door to backstage, Adam can hear the muted noise of soundcheck.
Becky warns, “Sometimes, the band gets a bit riled up before a show, so try not to step on any toes in there if they’re around. Some of them like to disappear for a bit. And be careful of wires and equipment. Have fun.”
Backstage, it’s expectedly hectic with the show starting in barely ten minutes. Crew members try to get everything in order and one ogle in amazement at Dean as he walks past.
Dean asks, “You see your guy anywhere?”
“You’re taller than me,” Adam points out. “If anyone can see him in this mess, it’s you.”
Dean squints, even tip-toeing for good measure. “I don’t see him.”
Adam sighs, pressing his lips together. It was a long shot anyway, even Becky said some of the band members wouldn’t show until the concert starts. The guy probably won’t appear until—
“You came.”
Adam and Dean turn around and Adam has to remind himself to breathe when he sees that charming face again. Obviously dressed differently from last night, the guy is wearing a black vest with an extreme dropped armhole, the band’s logo on display on his chest. His hair is styled back, a stray strand hanging over his forehead in a way that reminds Adam a bit of Superman.
He wears a smile that Adam recognises in strobe lights.
“Yeah,” Adam says, and then he adds hurriedly, “I’m Adam Milligan.”
“Michael Novak,” he introduces. He turns his attention to Dean, realising that they aren’t the only people there, and says, “You’re Dean Winchester, right? I watched one of your movies last month.”
Dean asks, pleasantly surprised, “Which one?”
“The one with Robinson.”
“Oh, she’s great,” Dean grins, nodding as he recalls the movie with Cassie. He looks back at Adam and says, “Anyway, Adam was excited to come to the show. Wouldn’t stop talking about it all afternoon.”
Michael grins, and then starts talking logistics. “Things can get unbearably loud back here when the show starts, so take care of your ears. Did Becky give you earplugs?”
“No,” Adam says hesitantly. He hopes that doesn’t mean Becky will get in trouble.
Michael’s eyes regard the ceiling in a moment of exasperation. “She always forgets to hand them out to backstage visitors.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pair. “You can have mine. Dean, I’ll get Becky to pass you some.”
“Wait, you need those for the show,” Adam begins to reject.
“It’s alright. These are my extra pair,” Michael says. “Here, I’ll get it for you.”
Michael carefully fits the earplugs into Adam’s ears and Adam tries to ignore the shit-eating grin on Dean’s face right now. It’s easy to pretend Dean isn’t there when his mind has a thousand thoughts in a hurricane.
“Alright. Done,” Michael says, his hand falling away. “Good?”
Adam raises a thumbs up.
Michael shouts across backstage to Becky to bring Dean some earplugs and he puts his own in, saying, “I need to get on stage soon. I hope you enjoy the show.”
He’s about to leave when Adam’s impulsiveness gets the best of him and he calls out, “Do you want to get a drink after?”
The corner of Michael’s mouth lifts in a half-smile and he returns, saying, “I’d like that.” After a second of thought, he adds, “My mind is always a mess after a show. Up there with all the lights, the noise, the movement, you come off the stage feeling out of it. I might forget to come to look for you, but—wait, I have an idea.”
Michael reaches for the necklace around his neck, pulling it over his head and holding it out to Adam—it’s a golden crucifix. He explains, “I never go anywhere without this. I’ll come to collect it from you after the show so I’ll remember to get a drink with you. Take care of this for me, please.”
“Alright,” Adam promises, hanging it over his own neck. “Break a leg.”
“I actually broke my leg out there once,” Michael says light-heartedly, and then he’s gone for real.
Alone now, Dean mutters, “Not into you, my ass.”
Adam punches his arm.
Watching Michael on stage is nothing short of hypnotising. Adam has never been backstage at a concert before, much less for a band that’s one of the biggest names in the USA.
It’s like Michael completely immerses himself on a different plane where it is just him and the music. He dances around the stage—so he does, in fact, dance—jumping and letting the guitar and drums guide his movement. His hair goes from styled to messy, clinging to his forehead with sweat, but no matter how tired he looks, Michael keeps his energy up. At some point, he pulls off his vest, shirtless, and yeah, the crowd goes crazy for that, but Adam can tell Michael only does it to feel a bit less restricted. Plus, with all the hot lights pointing at him, maybe it makes him feel a little less warm. Michael doesn’t look back at him the whole show but it’s only because he’s lost in the performance of it all.
Adam hopes this isn’t the last time he gets to be backstage to a Give Up The Ghost concert. He swears he can watch Michael forever.
“Hey! Who are you?”
Dean and Adam turn to the muted call, seeing a man who looks a bit similar to Michael with his dark hair and sharp cheekbones. He has blue eyes as well and Dean smiles imperceptibly as he answers, “Dean Winchester, this is my brother Adam Milligan. We’re friends of Michael’s.” Adam’s not sure if they can be considered Michael’s friends yet, but he doesn’t correct him.
“I know who you are, I meant Adam,” the man clarifies. “I’m Castiel, Michael’s brother.”
“What, you do music too?” Dean asks, waving a hand to gesture to the stage.
“No, I’m a writer. I happened to be in town so I came to his show,” Castiel explains. “Backstage passes to their concerts aren’t easy to get. How did you manage?”
Dean grins obnoxiously. “Struck a deal with their manager. I gotta do a music video for them but worth it.”
Castiel smiles but adds no comment about the deal. He asks instead, “How did you hear about the show?”
Adam takes the flyer out of his jacket pocket, passing it to Castiel. “Michael gave me this yesterday so I came to look for him—the band.” Castiel takes the flyer, face withering in distaste.
He mutters, “I told Chuck that the red and yellow one is ugly. The black and white one is better.” Castiel looks around and spots a bag with flyers in them so he grabs one from there, giving Adam a new flyer. “Here, have this one too.” Castiel didn’t lie—the black and white one is better. Michael’s face is clearer in this print.
Dean brings the conversation back to Castiel, obviously curious about him. “Writer, huh? What are you doing here?”
“Book tour,” Castiel says. Dean opens his mouth as if to ask what the book is about and it’s like Castiel reads his mind, elaborating, “My book is about a man whose body is going back in time while the world goes forwards. It’s supposed to be a mind fuck.”
“Hey, can I come to your book signing tomorrow? Sounds like a good book,” Dean asks, and Adam raises both eyebrows at him in incredulity.
Castiel smiles, charmed. “Of course. If you follow me somewhere quieter, I’ll give you the details?”
And then Adam is alone, watching the band. The bassist, Lilith, says that the song they’re playing is called Better Spent In Love, and then they launch into the instrumentals. They’re doing a slower song now, the lights going from fervent strobes to tranquil red and blue lights that paint Michael’s face like stained glass in a cathedral. For the song, Michael sits on a tall barstool instead of dancing.
“I’ve never had a year better spent in love,” Michael sings. “Heaven eyes, angel highs, find some peace of mind.”
Adam’s cheeks hurt, then he realises he’s smiling.
“That was amazing!” Adam says as soon as the band begins to come backstage at the end of their set.
“Thanks, kid,” Meg says, side-stepping to get to her guitar carrier to pack it up. Michael is once again not in sight and the drummer, Crowley, appears, staring at the crucifix necklace around his neck.
Adam pauses. “Can I help you?”
“That’s Michael’s,” Crowley notes, tone unreadable and gaze hard. “He never lets anyone touch it.”
“Oh,” Adam says, not exactly knowing what to say to that. “Well, he passed it to me for safekeeping. We’re supposed to get drinks, he didn’t want to forget, so.”
“I see,” Crowley mutters, still staring at the necklace. He scans backstage for a few seconds and says, “Give him a minute. I believe he’s meeting some fans at the exit. He’ll come back.” Crowley disappears into the mess of backstage then, and Adam does wait.
Just as Crowley said, Michael shows up, smiling. Adam takes the necklace off and Michael says, “Thank you for watching it for me." He does a double-take on Adam and gestures at his ears—Adam remembers he's still got the earplugs on. No wonder he couldn't read Crowley's tone. With how loud the show was, Adam almost thought it was normal. He keeps the earplugs in his jacket pocket and Michael smiles, asking, "Well, then, shall we get going?”
Michael had been more than willing to go wherever Adam has plans for them, even getting on the bus back to Lawrence instead of staying in Wichita. Adam had worried that it’ll make things difficult for him to go to his next tour location but Michael tells him that their tour is now over and he can do whatever he wants to do now.
They get off at the bus stop in Lawrence and start walking. Michael asks, “What did you have in mind?”
“Well, there’s a bar—Swayze’s, Dean’s friend owns it,” Adam says. “It’s open till 3.”
The corner of Michael’s lifts in a half-smile, amused and excited, and he says, “If I’m reading you right, I feel a ‘but’ coming.”
“You read me just fine,” Adam echoes Michael’s words from earlier, sharing his grin. “But I know a place that’s open for as long as we want it to be.”
“Count me intrigued. Lead the way,” Michael says, holding out a hand in front of him so Adam can take the lead. Adam stays by his side instead, directing them both through the pavements with only dim streetlamp light to illuminate the darkness.
They reach the back door of what Michael assumes is a diner and Adam takes keys out from his pocket. His fingers nimbly go through the different keys, quickly locating the right one and slotting it into the rusty doorknob. Unlocked, Adam turns the knob and opens the door, flicking a switch on the wall to turn on the lights.
“Welcome to the Roadhouse,” Adam says grandly, opening his arms up to the empty diner like he’s presenting a breathtaking view. “It’s not the 5-star establishments you’re probably used to, but she’s a beauty. I work here in the evenings and usually close up, that’s how I have the keys.”
The Roadhouse is a pretty spacious diner with red leather booth seats and cream coloured chairs that line the grey counter. The tiles are spotless, lending to the imagery of a boss who takes pride in their diner. The light, while thin, is still easy on the eyes. There’s a jukebox at the corner and a chalkboard menu rests behind the counter.
“Am I allowed here?” Michael asks, dragging his gaze around the diner and finding a new detail about it every second—the stage at the side, for one.
“Yeah, relax. Ellen loves me.” Adam dismisses.
Michael casts a smile his way. “I don’t blame her. There’s something about you.”
“Maybe I have superpowers to make people fall in love with me,” Adam jokes, moving behind the counter. “Anyway, what do you want from the menu? I’ll make it for you, on the house.”
Michael begins to turn him down. “I can’t ask you to make food for me for free.”
Adam raises an eyebrow, cleaning out a glass so he can make Michael a drink. “You let me come to your show for free. Call it returning the favour.”
Michael can’t argue with that, though he points out, “Technically, your brother got the free show.” At Adam’s flat look, he smiles and says, “But I’ll have… chocolate cake and whatever drink you think is good.”
Casting him a knowing look, Adam jerks his head to the backroom and says, “We have some beer in storage.”
“Oh, thank God.”
A grin splits across Adam’s face.
Michael points to the stage, asking, “What’s that for?”
“Oh, Ellen likes to host local musicians, so she lets bands or singers rent the stage for a couple of hours and play for the customers,” Adam explains, reaching into the storage room to blindly grab each of them a bottle of beer. “They can’t just be random people, though. Has to be an actual band or artist that’s already done gigs before. She wants to support local musicians but she also doesn’t want some guy who can’t sing to disturb her customers, you know?”
“I get that. We’re strict with choosing opening acts too,” Michael relates. “Do you perform?”
Adam slides one bottle over the counter to Michael and answers, embarrassed, “Sometimes.”
“Sometimes?”
“Friday nights,” Adam elaborates. “You'd think Friday would be a good day for diners but it’s not for ours, for some reason. Since there’s practically nobody around on Friday evenings, Ellen gives me the stage to fool around.”
Michael uses his teeth to pop the cap off of the bottle and Adam watches the act—then he remembers it’s rude to stare and he looks away. Michael takes the bottle cap out from between his teeth and asks, “Are you good?”
“Ellen and Jo think so.”
Michael raises a confused eyebrow. “Then why not let you perform on days when people are actually here?”
“There’s a difference between being good at a hobby and having it as a profession,” Adam says, shrugging. “It’s fine.”
Michael nods, thinking, and then he requests, “Can you sing something for me?”
Adam’s eyes widen and he laughs nervously, asking, “You’re kidding, right?”
“No, I’m serious. I want to hear you sing,” Michael insists genuinely. Adam chews his lower lip in consideration before he relents, reaching under the counter to get the guitar. Michael sits the wrong way on the chair, folding his arms over the back of it and resting his chin on them to make himself comfortable.
Adam gets himself situated on the barstool on the stage, not bothering with setting up the microphone stand he normally uses. With an audience of one, the intimacy of one voice, one guitar and no barrier seem appropriate. “Any song you want to hear?”
“What do you know?”
“Well, I’ve been watching Grease a lot lately,” Adam jokes, and Michael chuckles. “So I think I’ll do a song from there.”
He clears his throat and gets his fingers over the right frets before he starts strumming, reaching deep into his memory for the time he wrote down all the chords to the song. It sounds mostly correct, so hopefully, Michael won’t fault him on that. He starts into the first verse, “Guess mine is not the first heart broken, my eyes are not the first to cry.”
Michael listens with complete attention, watching with a smile that Adam almost misses.
“You know, I’m just a fool who’s willing to sit around and wait for you,” Adam continues, Michael’s attention on him giving him enough confidence to own the song. “But baby, can’t you see there’s nothing else for me to do? I’m hopelessly devoted to you.”
Adam tilts the guitar to use the headstock to point at Michael, nodding once with a grin. Michael looks like he wants to reject the offer but he sings the chorus anyway, “But now there’s nowhere to hide. Since you pushed my love aside, I’m out of my head, hopelessly devoted to you… Hopelessly devoted to you.”
Adam laughs, delighted that he did sing, and they harmonise the rest of the song—Adam takes the highs, Michael takes the lows, and they meet right in the middle.
There’s no need for dancing, not here. Not with them. Here, it is exactly what it is.