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Alex used to think that, if only he could get inside that songbook, he might understand Luke, totally and completely. He’d flip through pages stained by red sauce, lyrics jotted down at their favorite pizza joint; he’d take the time to parse through the jagged letters of Luke’s already disastrous handwriting, further scrambled by days spent writing on the road.
Once, a few beers and a joint into what could hardly be called a rehearsal, Luke said to Alex, “You are the beating heart of this band.”
Luke wrote the songs. Alex brought them to life.
These days, Alex tries not to think about that songbook at all—not if understanding Luke, putting words to his frenzied heart, reveals something he doesn’t want to know.
Besides, it’s hot and dark in whatever supply closet Luke’s shoved him into backstage, where his hands tangle in his hair and they laugh between kisses.
Why ruin a good thing?
Luke stumbles forward, their bodies press together. Alex sends a row of music stands clattering to the ground and swears. Outside, someone’s calling their names. Sunset Curve’s on in two.
“We should really go,” Alex breathes, fighting to stand while Luke drags his mouth down the length of his neck. “Like, now.”
Luke groans, “Five more minutes?” And though he puts on a show of grabbing at Alex’s t-shirt, Alex knows he doesn’t mean it. There is nothing else Luke would rather be doing than sharing his music with an audience; this is him blowing off steam, and Alex is his pre-show ritual.
Alex runs a hand through his hair, shrugs on his denim jacket. Luke watches. His eyes have a way of sparkling in even the darkest corners of Los Angeles, those places he pushes, pulls, tricks Alex into. Alex knows, like he knows what he might find in that songbook, that he is not the only one to have seen Luke like this. He notices when Luke disappears after shows, when he reappears wearing one less ring and still drenched in sweat.
Some show, he’d say, and Reggie would clap him on the back.
In some ways, this has become Alex’s pre-show ritual too. He always quits kissing Luke wanting to hit something.
“You ready?” Luke asks. His hair’s rockstar wild, his sweatshirt hangs off of one shoulder. Alex did this to him—he made him beautiful.
Is one song, he thinks, too much to ask for?
He nods.
Luke kisses him on the cheek, “Play your heart out, man,” and slips out the door.