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Jimmy wants to fucking die.
When he imagined putting together his dream band, the images in his head had been more akin to earning a gold disk, headlining at Madison Square Garden or Royal Albert Hall, selling billions of records, and being worshiped among their cult following, heralded as the Howlin’ Wolf or the Wagner of their times.
Sitting butt ass naked, save for a paper gown in some disgusting urgent care clinic in the middle of bumfuck nowhere Indiana had not been part of his plan. Sitting in a paper gown in some Indiana urgent care with his Adonis-looking co-frontman that Jimmy has a massive crush on chaperoning and sitting with him in the doctor’s office like his fucking mother, had definitely not been part of his plan.
The Adonis in question, Robert, is blissfully unaware of Jimmy’s complete humiliation, happily swinging his feet beneath the chair and humming an Elvis tune to himself.
“Er Robert,” Jimmy says, squirming uncomfortably on the examination bed, “you can leave if you’d like. I can’t imagine you want to be sitting here, watching my doctor visit.”
Robert grins that blinding, crooked smile of his and Jimmy has to school his expression.
“Oh Pagey, I don’t mind one bit, it’s all part of the experience, right? We get to see what a doctor's visit is like in America! And G told me you were afraid of the doctor’s and he felt bad he couldn’t come with, and I would loathe to leave you alone when-“
Jimmy cuts him off with a massive groan of embarrassment.
He cannot believe Peter said that.
“I’m not afraid of the doctor, Robert, maybe when I was a kid when I first met Peter-“
“-didn’t you meet him when you were 19?”
“- but I’m perfectly capable of going to the doctor’s myself.”
Despite that, some part of Jimmy’s glad he’s not here alone. He’d prefer that it wasn’t the man he’s madly infatuated with that’s here with him at what is a considerable low point for Jimmy, but with everything that’s been going on, he’s grateful for the support.
“And a doctor visit in America is just as boring as a doctor visit in England, Robert.”
“Well you weren’t at any of my previous visits in England so this is already more fun for me!”
Jimmy grins and he covers his face in a gesture that he hopes looks like he’s making fun of Robert, and not like he’s trying to control his blush.
He has no idea how Robert feels about him.
There have been so many instances of flirting, so many touches that feel too charged and purposeful to be accidental. And there are the smiles that Robert will flash him; the ones that make Jimmy feel like Robert thinks the whole world of him as well. Of course, that can't be true, they’ve only known each other for a couple of months, but fuck, the way Robert looks at him. And beyond that, there’s the feeling when they’re on stage. The feeling of something that has always been a little askew and strange in Jimmy clicking right into place as soon as he’s locked in with Robert. A growing feeling of belonging that he has never in his life experienced.
But to Robert, it’s probably nothing.
This—America, performing on stage and touring, the parties, the girls, it’s all new and it’s all fun. Robert tries to find the best and the fun in every situation and he flirts with anything that has a pulse. Jimmy has to remind himself of that when he finds himself stepping dangerously over the territory of ‘appreciating Robert’s appearance because from a success standpoint, it’s important for their frontman to have sex appeal’ to ‘horny’ to ‘genuine feelings.’ Because Jimmy’s here to take the industry by storm, put out incredible records, become famous, and become known as the guitarist of the best fucking band to ever walk this earth, not set himself up for a massive blow to the heart.
“And,” Robert continues, jarring Jimmy out of his thoughts, “the odds that I get diagnosed with gonorrhea at this appointment are far lower than at my last couple, so we’re already off to a good start.”
“I- what the fuck?” Is all Jimmy’s able to respond with.
Robert laughs a sound like angels singing and Jimmy wraps himself in it.
The moment is interrupted by a knock on the door and a woman in her mid 30 walking in.
“James?” She asks, checking her clipboard.
“Uh, yes, I’m James.”
Robert snickers. Jimmy really doesn’t know what’s so fucking funny in this situation.
“Hello. So what seems to be the problem?”
Jimmy thinks, trying to figure out what the least humiliating way to describe his . . . affliction. After a too long pause that he spends thinking, the intelligent response he comes up with is, “I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“Right now?” The doctor asks, shocked.
“No, they’re periodic.”
“. . . Periodic heart attacks?” The doctor asks, dubiously.
Jimmy feels like a chastised child as he squirms on the bed.
“Well, like a . . . fit of some sort.”
“And what do you feel during these fits?”
“Usually everything gets really bright and loud. My vision will fade and my hearing will too, so it’s difficult for me to know what is going on, but everything will get painfully bright and loud. And-“
Jimmy doesn’t know why he feels so self-conscious describing his affliction. He feels naked, sitting here and describing the complete loss of control he’s experiencing. Or maybe he feels naked because a paper gown is the only thing keeping him from flashing this middle-aged chick. Regardless, he instinctively looks at Robert.
Robert just smiles sweetly and gives Jimmy an encouraging nod, making the go on motion with his hand.
“My heart pounds like it’s trying to escape my chest and it’ll become difficult to breathe and I’ll choke and feel dizzy and faint. It feels like something awful is going to happen. Then it’ll just . . . Stop.”
The doctor nods, writing something down. Jimmy cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of what she’s saying with no avail.
“Alright. I’m going to take your vitals, then let’s start a heart exam.”
Jimmy grimaces. He’d been hoping the doctor would dismiss him and tell him everyone has the occasional fit that rendered them completely unable to function and it was nothing to think too hard about. Alas.
“Let’s start with your weight. If you’ll step on this scale, I’ll get your measurements.”
Jimmy knows his weight, it’s 133.4 right now, 13.4 pounds heavier than he wants to be, but he’d probably get some odd looks if he rattled it off, so he stands on the scale.
To Jimmy’s surprise, it flashes 134.1 today, and he tries to ignore the way his stomach flips at that as he steps off the scale. He’d had breakfast this morning since he’d been feeling peaky (or peakier than usual), which had been 147 calories of strawberries and yogurt, and he’d skipped lunch, so logically, this shouldn’t be happening, but before he can mull over that, though, a blood pressure cuff is hooked onto his arm, squeezing uncomfortably.
The doctor takes the reading a few times, frowning at the results and telling Jimmy to relax before running it again. Finally, after round four, she notes it down.
“Your blood pressure is quite high. We’ll keep an eye on that.”
Next, he’s moved to the bed and the gown is slid off his shoulders as the doctor pulls out a stethoscope. Holding one hand between his shoulder blades, she presses it to the center of Jimmy’s chest and asks him to breathe.
At some point, as the nurse moves the stethoscope around his bare chest and back, Jimmy catches Robert sneaking a glance. Their eyes meet and Robert gives him a quick grin.
He wonders if the stethoscope had detected the way his heart flutters when he notices it.
After a few more minutes of deep breaths, the doctor finally withdraws.
“You’re right, your heart is racing,” the nurse says, scribbling something on her clipboard.
“I think the best next steps would be to order some blood work and run an EKG.”
Jimmy curses silently, already dreading the blood work. Blood makes him a little queasy and he’d rather not have sore arms when he has important shows lined up, night after night. Perhaps he can weasel his way out of it when the time comes, though. Jimmy’s good at getting people to do what he wants.
“In the meantime,” the nurse continues to rattle on, “let me ask you a couple of questions. How long do these episodes last?”
Jimmy furrows his brow and tries to come up with a time. He can’t, though. His awareness always fades completely when he has them. It’s frightening if Jimmy’s being completely honest. He’ll just be standing and then his body will completely shut down and when Jimmy comes to, usually curled up against a wall in a fetal position, he won’t even know how or when he got there. Nothing will feel real except the disorientation and the crushing exhaustion lingering from the fit.
“I’m not sure,” he says softly, “I’m not quite aware when it happens.”
“About ten to fifteen minutes,” Robert interrupts, looking at the doctor.
Jimmy doesn’t know if he’s supposed to be utterly embarrassed or flattered by Robert’s attentiveness to him. Of course, that’s been the running theme all day.
The doctor looks between them.
“Have you been present with him for these episodes, Mr . . .”
“Plant. And no I have not, I think he usually excuses himself when he feels one coming on because of the overwhelming loud sounds and bright lights.”
That and the fact that the band he’s supposed to be leading doesn’t need to see Jimmy lose his shit like that, but bright lights and loud sounds are an adequate excuse.
“But he’ll usually rejoin us within fifteen minutes. One time, it got up to seventeen and that was so unusual, I was worried enough to stand outside the door like a bloody centennial,” Robert says with a little laugh.
Another flutter of warmth blossoms across Jimmy’s chest and face and he shoves it down.
“James, would you say this is an accurate statement?” The nurse asks, shocking Jimmy out of his musings.
“Uh, yes. I do need to sit for a few minutes afterward, though. I’m usually very fatigued when I regain awareness, so perhaps ten would be a better estimate.”
“And will you notice symptoms leading up to this or is it out of the blue?”
Jimmy shrugs.
The only consistent symptom he can think of is a headache or upset stomach. Granted, Jimmy’s good-for-nothing stomach is always upset, and he hasn’t really been eating well for . . . The past nine years, if he’s being honest with himself. Though the payoff in that department has been good, so it’s no problem, really. And maybe the headaches, but that can be attributed to the amount of Jack Daniels he’s taken to throwing back every time the stage fright gets bad, so that’s likely not the best thing to bring up at the doctor’s (besides the Jack has absolutely helped Jimmy’s performance, clearing his head of the usual anxious thoughts backstage and letting him get in the right zone, so if his liver needs to take a few hits so the rest of Jimmy is able to perform at his best, so be it) so Jimmy just shakes his head.
“No, it’s out of the blue.”
“Alright. And have you been dealing with being overworked, sleep deprived, or malnourished?”
Jimmy squirms in his chair, trying to come up with a suave response to navigate this situation. Not before he’s cut off by Robert though.
“Yes, he’s been all three for the last several months,” he supplies, rushing the words out because he knows Jimmy’s not going to like this.
Jimmy shoots Robert an incredulous look before he’s cut off by an interrogation.
“How many hours a day are you working, James?”
“Well I'm in a touring band and it’s our first tour so I’m handling a lot of business issues and financial issues along with booking, promoting, composing, producing, recording, hiring and performing, of course, but it’s all work that needs to be done.”
“And how much sleep have you been getting?”
That’s another complicated situation. He’s usually at some afterparty or bar, getting shitfaced until about 2 or 3 when either his social battery depletes completely or he finds some chick to entertain himself with next few hours, then he’ll sit awake and spend an hour or five trying to work out a solo or come up with some ideas for their album, because everyone knows it’s the second album that really destroys bands so the material must be good, and then he’ll get in bed and lay awake, worrying about their tour and their album and their marketing and their public image and their trajectory and their expenses and anything else he can think of for another hour or five and then somewhere in the middle of all that, he’ll get some sleep. He’s not entirely sure how much, but if he added all the times he’s blinked and closed his eyes to sneeze along with the actual sleep he’s getting it must be about . . .
“Five hours a night, roughly?”
“That's half of what you should at least be aiming for. And how about food?”
Jimmy gnaws on his lip. Food has always been a little difficult for him. Has he been eating? No, not really, but Jimmy’s doing what he needs to do for his body. If he wants to be a star he needs to look the part. And beyond that, hunger pains are better and easier to deal with than the disgust he feels when he’s standing in the mirror, able to clearly see a roll of excess fat on his stomach, so what Jimmy’s doing here is really just choosing the lesser of both evils.
At that question, Robert gives Jimmy a look .
“Uh, I have just been so busy,” Jimmy says, as a means of response.
Thankfully the doctor seems to understand without Jimmy having to lay himself even more bare.
“I don’t have to explain to you that those habits need to be remedied, right?” She asks, eying Jimmy.
He puts on his most sincere face, the one that old people just eat up, and nods.
“Of course, ma’am.”
“Alright. And have the episodes all come on at the same time or in the same place?”
Jimmy wracks his brain, trying to remember. They’ve all been at different times, but they’ve also all been backstage or at sound check. He conveys that to the doctor.
“Thank you, James, this has been very helpful. I’m going to cancel the request for labs and an ECG as I don’t think you’ll need those. I’m confident what you’re having is a panic attack or anxiety attack.”
Jimmy tilts his head, uncomprehending.
“I’m sorry, I don’t fully understand.”
“A panic attack is a sudden episode of intense fear that triggers severe physical reactions when someone is under a large amount of anxiety.”
Jimmy blinks at her.
“You’ve concluded I’m having heart attacks because I’m stressed?” He repeats because that doesn’t sound plausible. Clearly, nobody would come to a conclusion that dense after years and years of presumably rigorous medical school.
“Not stressed, anxious. The difference between anxiety and stress is that stress is a response to an external trigger while anxiety is persistent stress, fear, and dread to an unhealthy extent that impairs your ability to function on the day-to-day, which is what you’re experiencing with these episodes. What you’re having is called a panic attack, which is when your body becomes so overwhelmed with anxiety and experiences a shutdown, going into fight or flight mode. However, the nature of your worries isn’t something you can fight or run from, your body gets overcome by the panic and you lose your ability to function, so you experience all these physical symptoms including a racing heartbeat, shortness of breath, dizziness, trembling, muscle tension and many other symptoms. You’re dealing with an unhealthy amount of stress along with lack of basic self-care so your body and mind are struggling to cope.”
So basically, Jimmy is being diagnosed as pathetic. That’s what’s happening here.
Running a hand over his face, Jimmy nods.
“Have you been dealing with a lot of stress recently?”
Yes. He absolutely has. Waiting backstage to go on always feels like he’s waiting to walk to his doom and when he’s not on stage, he’s constantly stressed. At this point, the tight feeling in his chest and the nausea and the headaches have become par for the course and since Zeppelin started recording their first album, Jimmy has been so overwhelmed by making sure everything goes right, he feels like he hasn’t been able to take a deep breath in a year. Everything has to be perfect and Jimmy’s bandleader and he cannot let things go to shit on his watch. He wants this too bad and there’s too much riding on him to let things go to shit. And he knows he’s hard on himself, but he has to be.
“Maybe more stress than usual,” he diplomatically says.
“Under these circumstances, the important thing to remember when you’re in the midst of a panic attack is to ground yourself. Bring yourself out of fight or flight mode and into reality. And a very simple grounding exercise can do that. Something like naming everything red in a room or counting by threes or listing different vegetables—an easy task that will capture your attention.”
Humiliation is boiling in his stomach. These exercises make him feel like a toddler being talked down from a meltdown. And Robert probably thinks Jimmy is some kind of pussy now, unable to handle the stresses of success. And that’s fully not true. Jimmy is completely fine and completely in control of the situation, and definitely in control of his own thoughts.
“Does that sound doable, James?” The nurse asks, and Jimmy realizes he’s staring at the wall, fully unaware.
“Oh, yes, absolutely,” he says, once again plastering on his ‘sincere and repenting’ face.
“And if the problem persists, perhaps seeing a psychologist to talk through your anxieties or taking mood-stabilizing medication, if it gets to that point, it is an option.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Jimmy says quickly, trying for his most winning smile.
He doesn’t need to be drugged up to cope with normal day-to-day life and he most definitely does not need a shrink.
After some more instructions on how he should get more sleep (as if) and eat more food (Jimmy would rather have a real heart attack) and put less pressure on himself (not if he ever wants to get somewhere in life) and finally getting out of that fucking gown, Jimmy and Robert walk out of the urgent care.
“Well isn’t this wonderful,” Robert says excitedly as they navigate the corridors, “you’re not dying! And you didn’t have to get any blood work! You know, your face went three shades paler when she suggested it.”
Jimmy groans, wondering if he could possibly be any more humiliated.
“Not dying, just losing my mind, apparently,” Jimmy mutters bitterly.
“Hey, you’re not losing your mind. Anyone would have a breakdown if they were under as much pressure as you’re putting on yourself.”
Jimmy shakes his head.
“I’m not having a breakdown, Robert. I’m just fine. The episodes didn’t even bother me, I just wanted to make sure I’m not going to drop dead mid tour. It would be bad for publicity.”
Robert grins that crooked grin.
“I don’t know, Led Zeppelin continues a valiant tour despite guitarist’s untimely demise sounds like a pretty captivating headline. It would draw an audience.”
Jimmy punches Robert’s arm lightly, but as always, when Robert’s in question, Jimmy can’t help but laugh along.
***
Naively, Jimmy had thought this was the end of his problem. But here they are, backstage at the Kinetic Playground in Chicago, getting ready to go on and Jimmy is trying with everything in him to hold it together. He’s quite literally holding on to sanity by the tips of his fingernails.
The pressure is killing him. Where they are now, one bad show could absolutely destroy them. Two hours of sloppy guitar work from Jimmy could absolutely ruin Zeppelin. His stomach is churning and his chest hurts and his head is pounding and Jimmy’s so scared. They need to be perfect. But he’s not good enough and he’s going to mess this up and he’s going to ruin everything and it’s all going to be his fault.
That’s all it takes for Jimmy to get set off.
His breathing feels too fast.
There’s an icy knot in his chest. He can’t go on stage like this. He’s petrified. What if he’s not good enough--he’s never going to be good enough. The other openers sound so good.
Christ when he’d thought this was a fucking heart problem at least he was confident he’d be cured. Now he’s so anxious. And he’s anxious about being anxious and he doesn’t know if this feeling will ever go away. He can't function.
Everything is a mass of color and sound. His legs threaten to give out. He’s trembling and he can’t do anything to stop it. He’s so out of control and he’s so so fucking scared. He’s going crazy. He’s fucking insane. And he can’t remember what the doctor told him to do to stop this. He can’t think clearly. It’s too much.
He has to sit. His legs are shaking too much. It’s too crowded. Too many people here and nobody can see him like this. He has to be strong. He has to be put together. He has to be in control. He can’t be anxious like this, he’s not allowed to fall apart. Not now when they have a show to play. Not when he has a million things to keep together. Tears are spilling down his face and the wetness feels like it’s too much. The water on his face adds to the overload from the bright lights and sounds. Jimmy wants to scream. At everyone to shut up and turn off the lights and stop the music. At himself for doing this again.
He’s running to find a dressing room when someone grabs his shoulders.
“Hey, hey snap out of it!”
Someone pushes a water bottle into his hand. Someone . . . Robert unscrews the cap and guides Jimmy’s hand to his mouth. The water helps. It’s cool and refreshing and Jimmy feels less frantic. It makes the dizziness better. He gulps down more.
“Grounding activity . . . what’s a grounding activity,” Robert asks himself.
“Oh, name all 12 dwarves in the Hobbit!”
That’s essentially the stupidest thing Jimmy has ever heard. Stupid enough that it breaks him slightly out of his panicked haze.
“What?”
“The 12 dwarves from the hobbit!”
“Uh . . . Dwalin, Balin . . . Kili and Fili and Dori,” Jimmy gasps, still out of breath from his breakdown, “Nori, Ori, fucking hell, Robert I don’t know.”
But it does the trick and slowly, Jimmy finally comes back to Robert holding both of his shoulders, gazing into his face.
“Hey, are you alright?” He asks, and his undivided attention is on Jimmy and his voice is so tender and gentle and it makes Jimmy feel so ecstatic and overwhelmed and put together and broken and fills him with absolute delight and complete dread at the same time, and it’s so much it makes Jimmy want to start crying again.
A few tears might have slipped out because Robert cups the sides of Jimmy’s face and brushes his thumbs under his eyes, catching the tears before they fall.
“No no no, none of that, tell me what’s wrong,” Robert coaxes.
And something in Jimmy cracks. He has never been treated like this. Nobody has seen him at his worst, in those terrible moments when he’s out of control and loses himself and isn’t presenting that façade that everyone seems to want and has stuck around and still looked at him like that before. And his heart hurts with how much gratitude and affection and love he feels for Robert.
And that scares Jimmy so fucking much. Because he absolutely cannot go falling in love with his bandmate. He cannot do this because it is only going to set Jimmy up for hurt. And the rational part of him knows that. The rational part knows that he’s already let himself get too attached and let down too many of his protective walls and let Robert get too close to him. He’s let himself get to the point where he needs Robert. And he knows that the only way this could end is excruciating hurt.
Because sure, Robert’s been here through one of Jimmy’s breakdowns and is still treating Jimmy with care and affection and nothing less than compassion. But at some point, Jimmy knows he’ll become too much.
Jimmy isn’t sweet and wholesome and beautiful and perfect like Maureen, and it might be easy for Robert to love him now, but if Jimmy lets him get any closer, Robert will pick up and run in a matter of seconds.
Because Robert hasn’t seen Jimmy on those nights where he feels so wretched he doesn’t even feel human. Robert hasn’t seen him lay awake at night, overthinking until he makes himself sick with anxiety. Robert hasn’t seen how manipulative and selfish Jimmy can be. Robert hasn’t seen Jimmy shove fingers down his throat, forcing himself to vomit his stomach's entire contents, because he needs to control something so he doesn’t explode and destroy everything. Robert hasn’t seen the absolute mess he is and the absolute monster Jimmy can be and when he finds out, he’ll leave and Jimmy will be in such pain. Some people are made for long lives and love stories and happily ever afters and some people aren’t. Robert is the former, and Jimmy is the latter. This will only end in hurt and Jimmy can’t let himself go through that. He can’t bear that pain. He’s never felt love like this before and the magnitude of it, the way he would do anything to protect it, the power it has to absolutely destroy him? It terrifies Jimmy.
But when he looks at Robert, who’s gazing at him with that mix of protectiveness and admiration, and affection and warmth, Jimmy can’t find the will to save himself.
So he turns around, pushes Robert’s hands off his face, and leaves.
He has a show to nail. Nothing is getting in the way.
***
Jimmy doesn’t know how Robert finds him so quickly.
After botching the show, getting adequately drunk at the afterparty to forget just how badly he botched it and fucking someone whose face he can’t remember anymore for long enough to get a short reprieve from his problems, Jimmy had come back to the hotel. Adrenaline had been high and somehow, in that state of drunk and a little fucked up, Jimmy had decided sitting on the hotel roof with his legs dangling off the side to clear his head or whatever drunk bullshit he’d come up with was a good idea.
Then his synthetic courage had faded and Jimmy had remembered he’s terrified of heights and now he can’t move.
So he’s sitting ducks when Robert walks in and casually sits next to him, acting as if they’re not both dangling off the edge of a fucking building.
“What, the gig was so bad you’ve come up here to fling yourself off the hotel too?” Jimmy asks, not meeting Robert’s eyes.
So much of their show is reliant on his mutual chemistry with Robert and after the . . . events backstage, things had been awkward between them. Or rather, Jimmy had made things awkward between them.
He’s already let himself get too attached and it’s already having repercussions.
“No,” Robert says, “and while I definitely don’t think it was our best, it certainly isn’t worth flinging yourself off the roof over.”
Then, “listen, Pagey, I just wanted to apologize in case I overstepped earlier. I just thought, since I knew what to do, I could step in and help. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. It was just . . . hard to see you like that.”
Jimmy tries so hard to stay mad and bitter and give Robert the silent treatment, but the sincerity in Robert’s voice gets to him and he deflates as the anger and bitterness leave him.
Quietly, he shakes his head.
“You didn’t overstep, I just got worked up and . . . It . . . It happens sometimes, you don’t need to fret.”
They’re both silent for a while, staring up at the sky together. Lake Michigan spans out before them and the sparkling lights of downtown Chicago glimmer beneath them.
“Have you ever considered that it might happen less if you didn’t put so much pressure on yourself?” Robert asks softly.
“No, not really,” is the snarky asshole response he comes up with.
“I’m serious, Pagey. Humans aren’t meant to withstand being berated by themselves constantly. Those kinds of thoughts are like poison. You’re making yourself sick with them.”
Jimmy scoffs.
“Okay Robert, I think making myself sick is a little bit of an exaggeration.“
“John and I have heard you vomiting at all hours of the night every time we’ve had a room next to yours for the past month.” Is Robert’s no-nonsense reply.
“Listen, I’m not putting too much pressure on myself or poisoning myself with my thoughts or berating myself,” Jimmy says, knowing full well he’s doing all three, “I’m just . . . A perfectionist.”
Robert laughs a sweet sound.
“I know that. The first thing I told my Maureen about you was that you were a massive perfectionist. It was quite intimidating at first, really.”
Jimmy doesn’t see the problem.
“Being a perfectionist is what brought me this far.”
“Being a perfectionist is also what brought you to some random urgent care in the middle of bumfuck nowhere.”
Jimmy can’t argue with that, so he just shrugs. This conversation is hard and being honest and open and having such an intimate conversation about deep anxieties that he’s harbored since he was a little boy and never shared with anyone else is hard. Knowing that he’s just letting Robert in deeper and that it’ll hurt so much more when Jimmy scares him away is so so hard. He’s no longer drunk enough for this.
“Jimmy, tell me,” Robert asks, “what are you so worried about?”
“It'd probably be easier if I gave you a list of things I wasn’t worried about,” Jimmy scoffs.
“Stop deflecting.”
This conversation is getting very serious very fast.
Jimmy starts to squirm nervously before remembering he’s teetering on the edge of his demise and immediately goes still.
“What are you afraid of, Jimmy?” Robert asks, tilting to look Jimmy straight in the eye. And now, Robert’s no longer the naïve little hippie princess from the Black Country. He’s in complete control right now and his unbreakable gaze is drawing answers out of Jimmy.
“Not being enough,” Jimmy says before he’s even realized the words are leaving his mouth.
The weight of that confession is heavy in the air.
“Enough for what?”
And that’s it. The battle is lost. Jimmy gazes into Robert’s endless blue eyes as he finally breaks through the last of the defenses Jimmy has put up to keep himself protected from falling in love with this perfect, powerful boy. He has let his feelings for Robert overpower every shred of sense within him and let Robert completely in and left himself utterly defenseless and out of control, and if Robert doesn’t reciprocate, Jimmy will be destroyed.
“I’m afraid I’m not enough to make it big, enough to keep this band going, enough for the audiences, enough for other people, and enough for myself. I’m most afraid though, that I’m not enough for you.”
Robert’s mouth is slightly open and his gaze is so intense Jimmy wants to avert his eyes. But he can’t.
“You’ve always been enough,” Robert says, voice low and soft, hand resting on Jimmy’s thigh.
The air between them is charged.
Jimmy can’t respond.
“You’re enough and you deserve to let go and not worry and understand that. You deserve to be happy as you are. You don’t have to be perfect to be loved.”
For some reason, hearing Robert say that feels like a punch to the face. Jimmy feels winded and out of breath but he doesn’t know whether he should laugh or cry or run. He decides to do something absurdly impulsive instead.
“Robert,” Jimmy blurts, “I think . . . ”
Jimmy can’t speak though. He still can’t say those three words that he’s so afraid he feels. That if he’s honest with himself, he felt since the moment he first met Robert.
So he takes Robert’s hand and holds it in his, Robert’s fingers just brushing against the point on Jimmy’s wrist where his pulse is hammering with mad affection.
Robert does the same, taking Jimmy’s hand and running his strong fingers over every groove and callous on his fingers. The movement stops when Jimmy’s fingers rest right over Robert’s pulse. Jimmy can’t even begin to explain the euphoria when he feels Robert’s pulse hammering as well, perfectly in sync with Jimmy’s own.
Then Robert’s hands move again, going to cup Jimmy’s face. For a minute, Jimmy’s worried that he’s started crying again and Robert’s going to wipe more tears, but Robert pulls him closer, movements painfully gentle.
Then all gentleness is abandoned and like a roaring wave, he crashes his lips against Jimmy as a year’s worth of hidden passion and a lifetime’s worth of waiting for their souls to reunite culminates.
This is pure ecstasy.
When he pulls away, Robert’s smiling, but there’s fear in it. His face echoes the same terror that Jimmy feels.
Nobody can hurt you like the person you love, and the whole world is against what they’re doing and the weight of it—the weight that has been pulling Jimmy to his knees for the last year seems to hit Robert for the first time. The floodgates have been opened and it feels like nothing will ever be easy again. The fates have been set into motion.
It feels terrifying but it feels like pure joy and warmth and light at the same time.
Jimmy is at a loss.
He turns to Robert.
“What do we do?” He asks shakily, looking at Robert through wide eyes.
They’re quiet for a long time.
“I don’t know,” Robert finally says, voice shaking.
“But this,” he says softly, taking Jimmy’s hand in his own, “this is right.”
Under the stars, Jimmy rests his forehead against Robert’s, feeling his soul, for the first time, slip into place. Belong.
Robert’s right.
How can something like this be wrong?