Work Text:
This is a happy story.
Alex dies before he turns eighteen.
1
Music is prayer. It’s worship. Alex kneels with his head bowed until his whole body aches, repeating mantras in his head. He stands in a long line of other boys, his back straight and chin high, singing words of devotion in Latin, then English. The choir leader tells him he has the voice of an angel. Alex smiles politely, and glances at the woman to his left. His is a stern-faced mother. Years of squeezing her eyes closed in prayer and scowls has left her face permanently twisted, the corners of her mouth turned downwards, sharper than knives.
“Alexander,” she says, “time to go home,” the autumn air is cold as they step outside, and Alex feels that weird sensation of relief and guilt, church disappearing behind them. Esther bounces Abigail on her hip as they walk. His father walks next to Alex.
The tones of the choir, mingling voices flowing through the curving structures of the church, echo in Alex’s head. He hums the melody while he’s doing chores. His father gives him a displeased look, but music is prayer. Alex’s voice, his very being, is a gift from God, and every tune he sings belongs to Him. Even his father can’t deny him music then: Alex is praying after all.
Alex practices with the choir twice a week, like clockwork. He likes singing, he lives in the way all the voices blend together. It’s the only time Alex really understands what people say about God. The song and the melody and the harmony: it’s something untouchable, divine. Music is divine. Music is prayer.
The Father
Mr Mercer is not a man famous for his leniency. Alex knows this very well. He also knows his parents love him and his sisters. Mr Mercer works as a pastor in their local church, he’s hard-working and strict but generous; a family man. His mother stays at home and handles the house. His older sister, Esther, attends a catholic boarding school for girls, and his little sister Abigail is only three, being raised entirely by Alex’s mom.
The Mercer household is calm. Their meals are orderly and civilized, their discussions are brief and impersonal.
The older children, Esther and Alex, are expected to have top grades in every class, they both have to sing in a church’s choir, and they both have to be in the house by six PM. These aren’t rules that Alex has ever really had a problem with. The expectations are there to help them, after all. To give them trajectory, direction. To prepare them.
Failing to meet any of these requirements will result in a punishment, but his parents aren’t unreasonable.
There are many rules to follow in the Mercer household, and Alex knows them all by heart. The most important one: never, never , disobey his parents.
2
Music is tangible. It’s in his hands, it’s something he can hold and wield. It’s sticks held tightly, the array of drums in front of him.
Alex’s hands are shaking when he finds the drums. He can feel his heartbeat thump behind his eyes, though he can barely process what's right in front of him. His legs carry him away from the stares and whispers of the cafeteria. And finds himself in the corner of the music room, forcing air down his throat in uneven, desperate gulps. His whole body is sort of tingling, as if a thousand needles are pricking him at once. His hands keep closing and opening. Why can’t God hear him when he sings? Why can’t he answer his prayers?
He looks down to his right, eyes catching on the drumsticks. He snatches them, scrambling up in a strange daze. The drums stare back at him. And Alex really wants to hit something.
The first time Alex plays the drums he’s fourteen and losing his mind. It’s messy and ugly and sounds awful. He is almost delirious with it. He can make noise. Noise that doesn’t have to sound beautiful or perfect or smooth. The drums are so different from the choir it’s laughable, but Alex can’t bring himself to stop. The sounds they make are jagged and short and loud and inconsistent. They clash against each other in the air around Alex, and die out in seconds. Nothing like the harmonies of the choir, echoing between the church walls, sticking in his ears like glue. The drums are loud, then they're quiet. And it sounds awful.
Alex goes back to the drums next lunch break as well. And from then on, he spends every free minute at school with the drumsticks in his hands. He doesn’t have any friends he’s close enough with to miss, and they certainly won't miss him.
He starts experimenting. What if he hits these two drums after each other, what if he hits the snare drum and the mid tom at the same time, what beats can he extract from it? He memorizes it all. Sometimes when he’s alone, he’ll close his eyes and hold his hands in front of him, hitting the drums in his mind. Feeling the phantom vibrations in his forearms.
One day, he tells his parents he’s going to a friend's house - they don’t question it - and he hurries to the record store. He listens to every song he can get his hands on, imagining which drum is being played throughout them. He closes his eyes and tries to mimic what he thinks the drummer must be doing. In school the next day he tries to replicate it. It takes him nearly three weeks to learn his first song. The second song he memorizes takes six days.
His anxiety gets more… manageable. Drumming is something so much more than singing in the choir, it’s loud and messy and jagged, and it somehow manages to encapsulate the tumultuous anxiousness that clatters and plays loud beneath his skin and against his heart. It matches that feeling in his chest, and lets him get it out, let go of it, get over it.
There’s one thing that the choir has that the drums do not: belonging. He still loves singing in the choir, feeling like he’s a part of something bigger, that he’s connected to the others around him. Like they’re all in this together. When he sits in the little booth of the record store, listening to the songs, he starts imagining what the other band-members are doing. The bassist, the guitarist, the singer. He’s greedy and insatiable, but he’s still unhappy. Alex wants a choir he can play the drums with: he wants a band.
The drummer
Luke does not simply want a band, he NEEDS one. Nearly has one. He’s got Reggie on the bass, a natural fucking talent. He honestly wasn’t expecting that much when he begged Reggie to start with bass ( come on man, it's not even that different to playing banjo!) , but god damn was he pleasantly surprised when it turned out the guy took to it like a fish in water. Then, there’s Bobby, the rhythmic guitarist who Luke tracked down through the school halls and harassed until he agreed to play with them. Bobby’s old band had pretty much gone to shit anyways. Now all Luke needs is a drummer.
“Luke,” Reggie complains as Luke drags him and Bobby through the hallway. “This isn’t going to work,”
“I’ve got a feeling,” Luke insists.
“Yeah, well your last ‘feeling’ ended up with my couch on fire,” Bobby drawls.
“This isn’t like that,” Luke waves him off, completely unbothered, “our drummer's out there, guys! And the music room’s the best place to start,”
“Is this what he did to find me?” Bobby asks Reggie, who rolls his eyes.
“Yup, pretty much,”
“And? It worked didn’t it?” Luke stops, turning to face them. “Dudes... Somewhere in these very halls, is our drummer. And we’re gonna find ‘em. And we’re gonna be amazing.” Luke’s grin is so bright and so utterly convinced, Reggie grins back at him.
“Alright,” Bobby agrees. “Let's try. But I still think it’s a little unlikely anyone will be practicing during lunch-” He cuts himself off as they face the door to the music room. Someone is very clearly playing the drums in there. The beat seems to reverberate through the wall. They share a look between themselves, and Luke just knows. The handle creaks quietly as he pushes it down, and he ever so slowly opens the door.
“You’re fucking me,” Bobby whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. Luke can’t really form words. Out of all people, it’s Alexander Mercer . Known for being an absolute fucking stickler to rules, teachers-pet, perfect little catholic boy. Who sings in church on Sundays and aces every test. And he’s going wild on the drums.
His eyes are closed, brow furrowed in focus. It’s fucking hypnotising, the way he’s moving. His hands are going like they have a will of their own, like he’s not even thinking about it. A quick flick of the wrist or a swing with his whole arm, from his shoulder down to the tip of the drumstick; it’s so controlled and so wild, and Luke is entirely captivated.
Alex’s skin is a bit shiny from sweat, his blond hair fallen in front of his face, and his mouth is moving, and Luke imagines he’s singing song lyrics under his breath, and he can’t look away.
“This is perfect,” he whispers to himself, in his peripheral vision he sees Reggie smile at him.
“There’s no way,” Bobby says, still dumbfounded. The song ends, and Alex tilts his head back. There’s a smile on his lips, and the quiet, timid boy that Luke usually sees when he looks at him seems like a ghost in comparison. How has he never noticed him before?
Reggie’s bag drops to the floor, having slipped from his now slack grip. The sound breaks the tender silence, and Alex’s eyes fly open.
The band
Anxiety has always been a cruel companion to Alex. For as long as he can remember. As a kid he would check any scrapes or bruises he had every few minutes, because his mind convinced him the small wounds had suddenly reopened, that he was dying of something. Like something was killing him but he didn’t know what it was and he couldn’t see or hear or feel it. Like he was always one mistake away from everything collapsing.
Drumming has been a wonderful refuge. But now he’d been found out.
“What- I mean when did you-” Alex thinks his heart might actually beat out of his chest. Lukas Patterson, Reginald Peter and Robert Shaw.
“That,” Luke says, and there’s something in his voice Alex recognizes very well. He hears it in his own voice every time he prays: reverence. “That was amazing!” Luke is bounding forward, Alex doesn’t know what to do with himself. Someone has seen him play the drums. He’s been discovered. He’s been found out. The instinctive urge to apologize presses like acid against his lips, but Luke looks… happy. He looks down-right delighted.
Alex glances over at the other two boys. Reggie is staring at him with this stunned look, and Bobby looks nearly suspicious.
“Where did you learn how to play like that?” the latter asks. Crossing his arms in front of his chest. Alex shrugs.
“I-uh, taught myself?”
Luke nods with wide eyes. “Amazing,”
“But, listen, you guys, you can’t tell anyone, please,”
“Ooo, what a rebel,” Bobby mocks, “some kids disappoint their parents by doing drugs or getting arrested, but you, you really take it to the next level Mercer,” he chuckles, “I mean playing the drums, what a delinquent.”
“Ignore him,” Reggie says, elbowing Bobby in the ribs, “We won't say anything,”
“Yeah,” Luke agrees, “our lips are sealed. But dude, you’re fucking amazing!”
Reggie nods seriously in agreement. Bobby rolls his eyes.
“That was pretty impressive I guess. Especially if you taught yourself,”
Luke, Bobby and Reggie share this look, and Alex can’t for the life of him decipher what they’re thinking. He gets this feeling though, that this, whatever it is, isn’t ending here. This isn’t just a chance meeting in the music room, it’s the start of something. If it’s good or bad, Alex just doesn’t know.
To his great surprise, Alex finds himself sitting next to Reggie in his next math class. Reggie grins at him, eyes glinting.
“Hi!” Reggie nudges him, “you’re good at math right?” Alex looks between his new desk-mate and the board. He nods.
“Great! I need some serious help. I mean, numbers, they just don’t make sense. Like, how can they be negative? They’re already nothing.”
Alex blinks at him once, hoping to relay how stupid that statement was with his face.
“Think you could help me?” Reggie looks so genuinely hopeful that Alex really can't’ say no. And besides, he’s not exactly in a position to be picky with his friends.
“Sure. We can study together for the test next week. Are you free on Thursday?” Alex does his best impression of a friendly smile. Reggie gasps, a panicked look in his eyes.
“We have a test?!”
Alex can’t help but smile.
Somehow, this becomes a common occurrence. Between Reggie, Luke and Bobby, Alex finds himself with a desk-mate in nearly every single class. They start following him to the music room during lunch, sitting in a little circle on the floor and eating their sandwiches while Alex practices on the drums. He overhears them talking during these times, about their instruments and their songs and how Bobby’s parents are out of town.
Alex learns a lot about them through observation. Reggie is usually a bit shy in class, but loud and raucous when it’s just the three - four - of them. He never speaks about his family. Whenever he gets nervous or excited or just restless he runs his hand through his brown locks, pushing it away from his eyes. Reggie is the most un-picky eater alive, accepting the sandwich toppings that the other two don’t want, but he hates all types of condiments. Ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, soy, nothing.
Bobby swears about fifty-percent of the time he opens his mouth, a habit that Luke is happily replicating. Bobby does talk about his parents, but it’s always with an air of indifference. Like it doesn’t bother him that they’re never home, or making off-hand comments about what his father had done in a rage. Alex can tell it bothers him though, because he never swears when he speaks about his parents, and he sort of stops moving, like he’s trying a bit too hard to be unnoticeable. He also has a weird aversion to eating round things. Like grapes or blueberries or round candies.
Luke, at even the slightest prompting will launch into a pep-talk at every possible opportunity. He never passes up a chance to remind them of how amazing and great and awesome they are, and Bobby and Reggie both act like they don’t care but Bobby’s complaints lack fire and Reggie always goes a little red in the face. Luke also has the impressive talent of being able to turn absolutely any conversation or situation about music. He laughs like he’s trying to be cool and mysterious, but every so often Bobby or Reggie makes a joke that throws him into a laughing fit that's so uncontrollable he starts coughing.
And somehow, bit by bit, Alex is dragged into their little group. Reggie brings him a juice box from the cafeteria one day, an understanding smile on his face when he says that the cafeteria freaks me out too . Luke starts asking Alex for ideas for song lyrics or what words to use, and Bobby, whose parents are both involved in the music industry, brings him note-sheets for drums.
Bobby’s house is big enough to house an entire medieval village, but in it lives only Bobby, and the occasional parent or two. The walls in his room are plastered with posters and CDs and so much other stuff that Alex gets a little dizzy. It’s a pretty stark contrast to his own room, with its plain off-white walls, and a cross hanging next to the window.
Reggie and Luke both rush towards the bigger of two bean-bags, and end up sitting strangely intertwined with the other after wrestling for it. Bobby flops down on his bed, while Alex sit’s down cross-legged on the floor. Note sheets and lyrics are scattered around the ground, so Alex busies himself with inspecting them while the other’s bicker with each other, both Luke and Reggie making valiant efforts to push the other one of the bean-bag.
“This is pretty good,” Alex remarks, turning over a paper titled ‘Now or Never’. At the top of the page, two lines are written bolder than the rest: ‘Keep dreaming like we’ll live forever, but live it like it's now or never.’ “Do you guys play or-”
“We have a band!” Luke exclaims, punching both arms in the air, “ we’re Sunset Curve,”
“Tell your friends,” Bobby adds, winking exaggeratedly.
“Ah”, Alex looks back at the note-sheet for ‘now or never’. “You could do the beginning of the last chorus a cappella,” he points to where the lyrics 'don't look down’ start again. “Then come back with the guitar and drums on ‘now’”.
“Uh,” the three boys look between each other, “What’s a cappella?” Luke asks, leaning forward. Reggie complains loudly seeing as the position causes his leg to bend awkwardly.
“Oh. Well, a cappella is when there are no instruments accompanying the vocals. So like raw vocals basically. We sing mostly a cappella with the choir, unless we have the organ as well,” Alex explains, and Luke nods eagerly.
“More,” Luke demands.
“Yes, give us more words please,” Reggie agrees, wriggling out from underneath Luke and draping himself over the others back, effectively pushing both of them off the bean-bag. Neither seem to care, as they both stare at Alex with pleading eyes.
“Go on,” Bobby agrees, watching curiously from the bed.
“Do you guys know, like, anything about singing?” Alex starts, and all three of them shake their heads.
“I know bass,” Reggie supplies enthusiastically.
“Yeah, I mean, we all know our instruments, but we haven’t really learnt singing properly,” Luke adds.
“Ok. Right, well I only know about singing in the choir. But I can explain that I guess,” Alex takes a deep breath, “so essentially, when we sing in the choir, we do this things called harmonizing-”
“I’ve heard that word!” Reggie exclaims. Alex tries his best to nod with as little attitude as possible.
“Great. Anyways, harmonizing is when,” he pauses, trying to figure out how to explain it, “so we have these four kinds of levels, for how high or low someone is singing. When we harmonize, we have groups for every vocal range, and they all sing the same melody in their respective tones. It creates these, like, layers almost, which sounds really nice. I don’t know the exact physics of it but it’s just some sound waves that work well with others, and there’s a pretty exact amount of combinations of tones that sound good together.” he stops to see if the others understand. Bobby is nodding slowly, but both Reggie and Luke are frowning.
“Think about your guitar,” Alex tries again, “every string produces a set tone, yeah? Some are deeper and some are higher. When you take a chord, you combine some of these tones to create a specific sound, but not every combination of strings sound good, right? It’s the same with singing, playing the guitar is basically harmonizing but with the strings,”
“What are the ‘vocal ranges’?” Bobby asks. He’s sitting up now, watching Alex with an intensity that's almost a little uncomfortable.
“Ok, well from deepest to highest we have bass, tenor, alto and soprano. In really big choirs we also have two levels for each tone, so technically we use eight vocal ranges,”
“How do you decide who sings which tone?” Luke has picked up a paper from the mess on the floor, and is scribbling things down in the most horrendous hand-writing that Alex has ever seen.
“It depends on a person's vocal range. So bass is the lower note for men, tenor is the high note for men, alto is the low womens note and soprano is the high note for women. But guys after puberty can also sing in falsetto, which is like a pretty light tone, and also men on average have a slightly smaller vocal range than women.”
Luke nods, slowly. “Right. And how do you know what your vocal range is?”
“Well, I mean it’s just where you're most comfortable singing,” Alex thinks for a second, “Here, like this, give me the highest tone you can comfortably sing,” Luke hesitates for a moment, before he sings a pretty even note. “Ok, now sing the deepest note you can manage,” Luke follows the instruction.
“I’m not like a professional or anything, but I’d say you're either like a 2nd tenor or 1st bass,”
Luke grins proudly, “2nd tenor, 1st bass,”
“Oh, do me next,” Reggie shoves Luke to the side.
“Oh, sure, well do your high-” Reggie interrupts him with a surprisingly high and even note. Alex blinks, nodding to himself. “Cool. And now the deep-” Alex once again doesn’t get to finish before Reggie sings a rather low note.
“Well?” Reggie stares expectantly at him.
“You have a pretty wide vocal range, you could probably sing 1st bass, but also 2nd tenor,”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Yeah, it’s a bit rare in guys, but it’s cool,”
“Oh, oh, what about Bobby?” Reggie turns excitedly towards the bed.
“I think I know,” Bobby shrugs, “I’m a bass,”
“I thought you didn’t know vocal ranges?” Alex tilts his head a little to the side.
“I don’t, but I know I can singer lower than Luke,”
“Does that mean we can harmonize?” Luke demands, having somehow crawled/dragged his way even closer to where Alex is sitting. Alex nods.
“Yeah, if Reggie takes a slightly higher note, Bobby sings base and you sing the melody,”
Luke whoops victoriously, managing to shove his elbow into Reggie’s neck, who groans and swats him back on the head.
“Teach us!” Luke rolls back on his stomach, before sitting up. He leans forward staring intently at Alex. Alex leans back a little, glancing between his friends.
“Please,” Reggie pleads. Alex swallows.
“Sure?”
And that's Alex’s introduction to Sunset Curve. Luke somehow convinces him to give them ‘singing lessons’, and from there it really isn’t a long leap to playing the drums. It’s almost a little scary how easy it is to just, become one of them. Then again, Luke can be pretty convincing when he’s set his mind on something.
Sunset Curve has a drummer.
3
Music is connection. It’s brand new and exciting and thrilling . Playing with the boys is like nothing Alex has ever experienced before. It’s like a game. With the choir, everything is precise, every note as close to perfection as possible. In a way, Alex is more of an instrument to the conductor when he’s with the choir. With the band, he’s the player. He has room to be creative, to be just enough off-beat or off-key to make it artistic rather than perfect.
There is holiness in the act of creation. God created wheat but not bread, and grapes but not wine, and He gave humans voices and hands and innovative minds. And doesn’t it feel a little devine; creating something. Out of his own thoughts, he can create music and everyone can share in it. Luke always likes to go on about how their music connects them to others, that it's some kind of almost magical bond that they share with everyone who listens to them.
Alex isn’t sure if he agrees that it connects them to everyone, but he knows that it connects them to each other. When they’re playing, when they’re on the stage, it’s like they are all just parts of a bigger whole, like their minds and voices and instruments are intertwined. It’s something totally different.
They go down to the pier and play during the weekends. At first Alex can’t play at these - watching from the side instead - since he doesn’t have his own drum-set that he can take with him. But the money they earn from busking starts to pile up. Bobby’s parents have like five cars that are almost never used, and Bobby looks old enough that they’re never stopped when they drive down to the pier. Luke writes ‘Crooked Teeth’, and ‘Long-Weekend’, and Alex helps him refine ‘Now or Never’. They never perform those songs on the street though, Luke wants to save them for when they get a real gig.
Eventually they save up enough to buy a second-hand drumset from one of Bobby’s parents' old friends. The drums are shiny and red with metal details, and although the paint is chipped and the skin on the drums covered in shallow scrapes, Alex comes really close to crying when he sees it.
“We’re Sunset Curve!” Luke shouts at the gathered crowd.
“Tell your friends,” Reggie adds, and everyone cheers.
They convert Bobby’s garage into a studio. They find an old couch on the side of the street, and spend nearly two hours dragging it across town. They fill the loft with beanbags and note-books, and plaster the logo that Bobby drew all over one of the walls.
It isn’t always easy though.
Sometimes Bobby comes into the studio with small, round burns on his arms. He’ll snapp at anyone who tries to talk to him, and instead of mocking jokes or sarcastic comments he just glowers at the wall. Sometimes Reggie arrives at rehearsals and his hands are shaking so much he can’t even play a chord, his usually bubbly personality dim and quiet. Sometimes Luke stomps into the garage with his fists clenched in anger, and he refuses to talk to anyone. He just tells them to start playing with gritted teeth. Sometimes, Alex can’t come at all, because he has mass or family meals or he has to study for his test because if he fails, his father will be unhappy.
It isn’t always easy, but they have each other through it all.
Noise and music
If someone were to ask Alex about the difference between noise and music, he would think about Reggie. Reggie hates noise. He gets enough of it at home Alex supposes. Raised voices or slamming doors or the clattering of thrown objects, noises that all make Reggie sort of quiet and small. Constant buzzing, unharmonious talk and talk, a hundred disconnected sounds at once.
But Reggie loves music. It perplexed Alex at first, how different Reggie could be. How he hates noise but loves music. How he is confident and joking and relaxed around the band, but careful and weary around most others. And then, once he’s holding his bass, once the beat starts and they’re playing and singing, Reggie is more alive than Alex has ever seen him. Open in a way that's usually reserved just for the band.
To Alex, it doesn’t matter whether it’s noise or music, so long as it’s not silence. He hates silence. His house is always silent, and noise that isn’t angelic and perfect is nothing short of incriminating. Alex can't stand that silence. Silence is just empty space, and its gravity will consume him if he doesn’t fill it with something. Sometimes, Alex feels as though, if he’s not making some sort of noise, if he’s not talking or singing, he simply doesn’t exist. And he doesn't have much to say most of the time. Really, he only exists when he’s singing. Until he found the drums. He doesn’t just exist when he’s drumming, he’s living in a way that's intenser and deeper and more passionate than anything else he’s ever experienced.
If Reggie loves music because it’s not noise, and Alex loves music because it isn’t silence, well Luke just loves music. Like, more than anything else, more than girls or grades or air maybe. Luke lives for the beat and melody and song, for the applause and cheers. They joke that he’s cheating on his guitar whenever he brings a new girl over, but it’s also not a joke, because Luke really cares more about music than anything. Except for the band, although Alex is pretty sure that the band and music is the same thing to Luke. No songs matter if we’re not playing them together, he always says.
Then there’s Bobby. Bobby acts like he doesn’t love anything, like he doesn’t even care. He’s all shrugs and whatever s and eye-rolls and sarcasm that borders on cruel. But Alex is nothing if not observant. He’s seen that secret softening at the corners of Bobby’s eyes, his eyebrows moving ever so slightly back as his face relaxes. It’s minuscule, but Alex has spent his entire life perfecting the art of reading people, through reading his parents. Being able to figure out how someone is feeling when they’re trying to hide it is a matter of survival for Alex, so Bobby can’t hide his affection from him. Bobby cares about them. About the band, about Sunset Curve and what they are for each other and what they do. Bobby likes music. He enjoys it, the thrill and the hard work and the pay-off, but what he really stays for is the band. He loves their family.
And none of them really get along with their parents. Reggie’s are nearly always fighting, Bobby’s mother ignores him most of the time, and with his father, well, it’s better when he is ignoring him. Luke’s folks never accepted his music. They may not be intentionally neglectful like Bobby’s, or loud like Reggie’s, but Luke without music is a bit like a ship that never leaves the harbour, it may be safe there, but it just isn’t what ships are built for. His parents don’t understand, they want him to focus on becoming a lawyer like his dad, and keep music as a little hobby. For any other person's parents, that might have been very responsible, but Luke isn’t like that. Luke needs music, Alex thinks he may just die without it.
And Alex’s. Well Alex’s parents are hardworking, and caring, and they always want what's best for him.
Alex hasn’t felt loved by his parent’s in a long time.
4
Music is family. Music is long hours in the studio, joking and banering with the boys. It’s new lyrics and new riffs and new melodies, but it’s always them. Music is a feeling Alex can’t ever remember experiencing before.
The difference
Alex is fifteen. And everything is falling apart. At fifteen, all his three close friends have had a few girlfriends and hook-ups, and more than a few crushes on pretty girls in the corridor. Not Alex. There’s something wrong with him. He looks at the girls that Reggie won't shut up about and - yes sure, they’re pretty, Alex isn’t blind - but there’s nothing else. An acknowledgement of why someone could be attracted to those girls, but no attraction. No butterflies or blushing or whatever.
Which is catastrophical. Alex is gay, and it’s going to ruin his life, but first it’s going to ruin his night.
The music is so loud. Lights are flashing, and a daunting sea of sweaty bodies are swirling around each other in front of him. Kayla’s lips are soft and taste vaguely of vanilla. She has nice brown eyes, long legs, a blouse that cuts low on her chest.
She had sat down on the ratty old couch next to him a few moments earlier. Sour look on her face.
“This party sucks,” she said, sighing and sinking into the couch a little. Then she’d looked at him, her eyes dark, nearly black in the strange lighting. Her gaze had dipped to Alex’s lips. “Wanna make-out?”
Alex thought it was a simple enough question. The boys were always talking or flirting or kissing girls, why can’t he?
And now Kayla’s hand is on his hip, and his is on her waist. He’s never kissed anyone before, but the music and the light and the drinks; he’s not thinking as much as he usually would. And Kayla’s pretty, right? Boys kiss pretty girls all the time.
It’s nice. Kayla’s nice. But Alex doesn’t feel any of the things that Reggie always talks about. The tingling or the excitement. It’s just Kayla.
She leans back, but keeps her hand there on his hip, and he keeps his on her waist.
“Come on,” she says, grabbing his hand and pulling him along. They end up on the sidewalk in front of the house. Out there, the music sounds more like a vague heart beat through the walls, bass reverberating through the crisp autumn-night air. Kayla lays back on the concrete, looking up at the dark clouds. Alex copies her.
“You know,” Kayla says, “I used to have this huge crush on you,”
Alex stares at the sky, waiting for her to continue.
“All the other guys, I mean like every guy in our class, they were always bothering me. Whistling or touching my hair or shoulder or-” she shivers, taking a deep breath, “but you never did. You were always quiet and respectful and mysterious, and I guess I just wanted so badly to be close with a guy who didn’t just see me as- as like a walking sex doll or some shit.
“But I think I get it now,”
Kayla turns to look at him, and Alex looks back.
“You don’t feel that way about girls, do you?”
Something about the distant music and the cold air and Kayla’s dark eyes keeps him from panicking.
She’s looking at him. Really looking at him. And there’s no judgement in her eyes. Alex shakes his head. Kayla smiles.
“Okay,” she looks back at the clouds. “The kiss was nice. I appreciate it,”
Alex can’t really find words to speak at that moment. Does Kayla understand how much this means to him? This acknowledgement? This acceptance? Kayla sighs.
“Do you wanna be my boyfriend? Not like an actual boyfriend, just like…” she pauses, “like the guys will stop bothering me so much if they think I’m with someone. And you’re pretty intimidating. We don’t have to like, do anything, just, I don't know, hold hands in the corridor sometimes, be seen together. It wouldn’t be real. Just so people would leave us alone,”
Alex thinks about it for a second, dark clouds drifting above him. No one can suspect him of being gay if he has a girlfriend. Besides, plenty of people probably saw them kissing on the couch. And Reggie and Luke and Bobby have all had girls on and off. His parents will be happy. Kayla is exactly the kind of girl they would want him to go out with. Perfect grades, a dancer and singer, modest and humble but confident. There's more to her, Alex realises now.
She want’s a guy who treats her like a person and not a girl, and he needs people to believe he likes a girl.
“Yeah, sure,” he says, “I’ll be your boyfriend.”
“I’m dating Kayla,” Alex puts his food-tray down on their table, and Luke spits his juice out of his nose, and as a result starts to immediately groan and cough in pain.
“Seriously?” Bobby asks, lifting an eyebrow at him and ignoring Luke’s lamenting. Alex shrugs.
“Yeah, I mean, is it that weird?”
“Yes,” Bobby, Reggie and the newly-recovered Luke say at the same time.
Alex sits down, picking at his food and feeling a little self-conscious. “You guys date girls all the time though?”
“No that's not-” Luke shakes his head, “Nevermind. Congratulations man,” Alex gives him a short nod.
“How did this happen?” Bobby asks dryly, and Alex gets the sense he isn’t buying it. Should he tell them it’s just pretend? No, he needs them to think he’s into girls. No one can find out.
Alex shrugs, “We kissed at the party, she asked me and I said yes,”
“Kissing,” Bobby gasps, “Before marriage? I didn’t think you had it in you church boy,”
“Shut up,” Alex mutters, and Bobby has this sharp grin on his face.
“Hey dude, I’m happy for you,” Reggie smiles at him, although he still looks slightly stunned, “You’re a catch bro, I’m surprised girls aren't all over you,” all three of them stare silently at Reggie for a moment.
Alex decides to not unpack that comment too much.
“Yeah, whatever,” Alex pokes at the peas on his tray, a little underwhelmed by his friends reactions, “Kayla’s nice,”
The conversation ends there.
His mother nods, pleased, when she hears about Kayla. His father chuckles, and says that he should bring her over for dinner. That he needs to take care of her like a man. Alex can’t help but wonder what the scene would look like if he told them he had a boyfriend. Yelling, insults, denial. It most certainly would not end well.
Their arrangement works; Alex’s parent’s stop bothering him about the girls from church, no one suspects a thing. It works even better for Kayla. When they walk to class together - Alex slinging his arm over her shoulder or around her waist, or giving her his jacket for the day - the guys who used to bother her can only watch. Kayla gets this really smug grin on her face that only Alex understands. They share a knowing look as they part. Kayla, an excellent actor, will stand on her toes, closing her eyes and leaning forward expectantly, and Alex will plant a light kiss on her cheek. Kayla’s eyes sparkle with mischief and amusement.
They go on ‘dates’, although most of the time they find a nice cafe and spend a few hours studying. It kills two birds with one stone, because Alex protects himself from anyone discovering his secret, and at the same time he gets an excuse to study that his band-mates won’t object to.
Sometimes they go on real ‘dates’, but not in any romantic way. They just make a picnic, hang out at the park and complain to each other about whatever’s bothering them. Or they go on walks, or things that would be romantic for any other couple, but for Alex, he’s just so happy to have a friend who knows him, really knows him. Who he doesn’t have to lie to, or pretend with.
Alex actually has quite a bit of fun as well. It’s a bit exciting: the whole act. Watching everyone else buy into what they were selling, having a secret that wouldn’t hurt anyone else if it came out.
And Kayla is a good friend. She’s understanding and clever, and so far they haven’t encountered a single problem that she hasn’t been able to think up some creative solution to. She never brings up his secret, never makes a deal out of it. Sometime’s, when she catches him staring a little too long at the barista at their coffee shop, she’ll nudge him, wiggling her eyebrows teasingly before breaking into laughter.
His parents love her, but mostly Alex thinks they’re just happy he has a girlfriend.
He can talk to Kayla about almost anything. About the strange dynamics of his family, the ones that he’s starting to question. The confusion and anger. His love for drums, for his boys, his doubts about God and the church. Most of the time, Kayla has something clever to say.
“I don’t know if I believe anymore,” Alex tells her. They’re laying in the grass, children's laughter in the distance. The sky is blue above them, but it’s still reminiscent of that night on the pavement.
“In God?” Kayla asks. Alex shrugs.
“In any of it. I mean, my parents always told me, that, y’know, people like me are all sinners. That it’s this awful crime for me to just, love someone. And if that’s what God says, then I just don’t know if…” his voice trails off.
“Well if you don’t believe, there's nothing wrong with that necessarily,” Kayle starts, and almost immediately it feels a little easier, a little less crushing. “But just because you don't agree with your parents idea of religion, doesn’t mean you have to like, renounce it entirely,”
Alex frowns, “What do you mean,”
“Just,” Kayla scrunches her nose, thinking, “Religion, God, all of it, it’s like super subjective. Your parents and your church might have one idea of what God is and what he wants, but just because you don’t believe in that doesn’t mean you don’t believe in God. But also maybe you don’t.
“I guess my point is that it’s good that you question these things. That's the only way to get somewhere, y’know, by acknowledging that you aren’t where you want to be. So if you question God and end up losing faith, then at least you aren’t where you were before. And if you question God and still continue to believe in some version of him, then doesn’t that mean that your conviction is even greater than someone who never even thought about it?”
“But it’s more than just faith I would lose,” Alex says quietly, “It’s that whole, whole community I guess. The choir, and mass and stuff that I- that I’ll miss,”
“You’ll never get through life without missing things, you know that right?” Kayla sits up, looking at him severely, “Don’t sacrifice your whole happiness and everything just to avoid missing things ‘cause those things won’t last forever anyways,”
“Okay,” Alex exhales slowly. It’s quiet for a moment, peaceful, but the weight of the discussion lingers.
“I think- I think my parents don’t, well I mean they think they do, but I don’t think they really love me. Or, at least, I don’t think they would if they knew,”
“Dude, they’re your parents,” Kayla looks him dead in the eye, “they don’t get to pick and choose when to love you, based on whether or not you fit their beliefs or some made up criteria or whatever. You shouldn’t have to, to earn it or be a certain way to get it, it’s just supposed to be yours because you’re their son. Not because you’re straight or because of anything else,” she’s serious, maybe more serious than he’s ever seen her. “If they can’t love all of you, they don’t get to love any of you,”
“Wow,” Alex says, because wow. Thats Kayla: always putting things into perspective, “I never thought of it like that,”
“Of course you didn’t. That's what you have me for,” Kayla gives him a pointed look, then lies down again.
“My amazing not-girlfriend,” Alex quips.
“The best not-girlfriend in the field, I’ll have you know,”
“Kayla,”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you,”
“No problem,”
Alex doesn’t know what God is, but he still knows music. Maybe that’s God: music has always been divine. Before it became anything else, music was prayer. Maybe his faith doesn’t need to dictate his whole life. Maybe it doesn’t have to be anything more than a cliff in the storm: a comfort, a light at the end of the tunnel, but not the journey itself. Maybe he can find God in what he has, not what he doesn’t. He has Kayla, a friend he can trust, he has music, passion and purpose, and he has his boys. His band. What more God does he need? What more God is there?
Violence and love
Alex knows his family is different. He knows it very well. He knows most sixteen year-olds don’t have to be home before six in the afternoon, he knows most people don’t eat family meals in complete and utter silence, and he knows that for most people, dinner isn’t a minefield.
There is a perfect routine to follow. His mother says that the dinner is ready. His father gets up from the couch, Alex walks down from his room, and finds Esther and Abigail already at the table. They all sit down. No one speaks. They hold hands, his father appoints someone to say grace. They eat. In complete silence. When everyone is done, his mother will smile at her husband and ask him how his day was.
His father will say something along the lines of ‘business as usual’. Then Alex’s mother asks Abigail, who always has some story from her day to relay to the family. And every time, without fail, his father nods absentmindedly and says ‘that’s great honey’. Esther will either mention some test results she got, or how ballet practice went. She won't look up from her plate, voice quiet and timid. When it’s Alex’s turn, he usually just tells them it was okay, and no one asks any more questions. When his father dismisses them, Alex and Esther put their plates in the sink, and go back to their rooms. His mother cleans up after the meal, while entertaining Abigail. His father goes back to the couch.
The Mercer household is cold. And when it’s not, when his father takes notice of him, when his father cares, when his father loves, it’s violent.
But Alex knows that his family is different. It’s not violent like Reggies, his parents always cruel and mean and cutting with their words and voices and shouting. It’s not like Reggies, always falling apart and collapsing and crashing. It’s not like Bobby’s, who hurt him out of malice. Who’s father very intentionally presses a cigarette into his arm, not to help him, not to teach him, just to hurt him.
But Alex’s parents aren’t like that. Alex knows this, because every time his father unbuckles his belt - every time he tells Alex to roll up his shirt and face the wall - he says, in his deep but smooth voice: This is for your own good. And Alex has always believed it. In his life, love, care, is always violence. And God is a distant, cold-hearted creature whom Alex has never found in anything but the pain in his back and knees.
Bobby's father and Reggies parent’s hurt them because they don’t care, but Alex’s hurt him because they do .
And then he starts loving his boys, his friends, his band. He loves Luke and his relentless passion, and he loves Bobby and his quiet confidence and knowing eyes, he loves Reggie with his strong hands and persevering enthusiasm. Alex loves them. And the very thought, the very idea of hurting them makes him so sick he can barely breathe.
And one day the realisation comes: if his parents loved him, even a fraction of how much Alex loves his friends, they wouldn’t hurt him. They wouldn’t keep hurting him, they wouldn’t keep hurting him knowing what they’re doing is hurting him, they wouldn’t call it ‘good’, they wouldn’t hold him so tightly that he has to wear long sleeves in August.
Which leads him to a very simple conclusion: his parents don’t love him. They think they do. In their minds, they’re ‘preparing him for the future’. But every time Alex can’t sleep on his back, he loves them a little less.
At dinner Alex sits with a million confessions in his throat. There’s a small fire there, an anger. The embers that sparked it rest in the back of his chest, behind his lungs, and they’re expanding, pushing against his spine. The heat rises through his throat and his tongue and his whole body burns with the words he wants to say. He wants to shout, to scream, to profess something so grand and touching that his parents would change their minds. He would say something so profound and honest and open and it would fix everything. And his parents would understand, would be instantly hit with the weight of their own actions, their guilt and regret crushing them.
They would ask him for forgiveness, as if he were God. And like God, he would turn his back. He would leave, and he would leave knowing they understood what they did to him. What drove him away. And they would live with that knowledge, it would taint their lives the way they tainted his. They would hate themselves as much as he hates them. His anger is self-sustaining, and it’s like a plague he’s never been exposed to before. Something he’s never truly been allowed to feel. Impossible to push down.
“How was your day?” His mother asks his father.
“Same old,” his father chuckles like he said something funny.
I hate you , Alex thinks. You made me hate you. You’re my parents and you made me hate you.
“What about you Abigail?”
You don’t know how to love me. Stop loving me.
“Esther, how did your math’s quiz go?”
I’m everything you hate, so stop loving me.
“Alexander?” his mother is looking at him expectantly. Words spin around in his mind, but really, he knows there is nothing he could say to change them. The knowledge is as much heartbreak as it’s comfort. If he were something else, they would love him. He could kill himself trying to get their approval. But why bother?
“I’m gay,” he says.
He’s never uttered it out loud before, but it’s there now. It’s been released into the world: truth. He can’t take it back, he can’t go back to the performance that's been killing him for as long as he can remember.
His father puts his knife down. Esther looks up from her plate, her eyes are pleading and desperate.
“I think, what my brother’s trying to say-” Esther tries to salvage it, but Alex wants this over with.
“I meant exactly what I said,” he interrupts. “I’m gay. Homosexual. I like guys and I don't like girls,”
“You’ve been spending too much time with your little band,” his mother says coldly, “They’ve been a bad influence,”
“It doesn’t matter. If I never spoke to them again I would still be gay. It won't change. Ever,”
“Alex please,” Esther pleads, but Alex has to do this. Whatever happens, it’ll be over soon. It won't be in front of him anymore, looming and suffocating.
“You’re young, Alexander, you’re confused. You’ve been led astray, away from the path God has intended for you, and I can see that now. I let you join your little band because it made you happy, but I’ve failed to see how it has corrupted you. Don’t worry, my son, we’ll correct it,” his mother's expression is stoic. Cold. There is no love in her face.
“No,” Alex says. His mother scowls. Esther is at the brink of tears.
His father takes a slow, controlled breath. Everyone else stills. He lifts his chin a little, pursing his lips. Then he looks straight at Alex. And Alex thinks it’s the first time his father has ever truly seen him.
“You think you're ‘gay’” his father says it’s like it’s some kind of joke, supercilious. Alex doesn’t answer, his fathers anger as terrifying as always. His father laughs, but it's deprived of any humour. “I didn’t raise a goddamn homosexual.” His voice is sharp in a way Alex hasn’t heard before.
His father drums his fingers on the table, the next second his arm swings out, back of his palm striking Alex’s cheekbone. The wedding ring tears open the skin right under Alex’s eye, and his whole head snapps to the side with the force of the slap.
That has never happened before.
His father has hurt him plenty of times, but never, not even when he was a little kid, had he ever hit him somewhere visible. Somewhere where the bruise might garner attention. He wouldn’t want anyone to think he’s harming his son, wouldn’t want to tarnish the perfect family reputation he has built for himself.
That’s how Alex realizes what's happening.
He’s not their son anymore. His father, Mr Mercer, doesn’t have to worry about leaving marks, because Alex isn’t a part of his family anymore. Esther is crying now, and his mothers eyes are as cold as they’ve ever been. Alex knows what the man in front of him is going to say. It might as well already have been said. That hit was the only sign Alex needed.
“Get out of my sight,” the man says. Don’t come back , goes unsaid, but Alex wouldn’t want to return even if the offer was extended “Godless creatures,” he mutters under his breath, and Alex’s exhale lodges in his throat.
Alex stumbles up to his room, grabs his school bag, shoves anything he can reach into it. He doesn’t glance at the dinner table as he’s leaving. Esther is still crying. He doesn’t turn back when Mrs Mercer tells her in a sharp voice to stop making a scene , and Esther's sobs taper off just as he steps out of the door. He hopes that she also leaves soon, but he isn’t going to stick around to find out.
There is a sharpness to the world that he hasn’t noticed before. Everything’s the same, his old street with its rusty signs, but every little detail seems more contrasting. More prominent. A little like he’s seeing it all for the first time.
There’s really only one place to go.
He knows the others will be in the studio, working on some new lyrics or composing a new piece, or just chatting. Alex can very rarely go to these sessions, it is almost always during dinner. It hits him, almost a little surreal, that he’ll be able to go to every one from now on. He isn’t welcome to family meals anymore.
A light is on inside the garage that they converted into a studio, and the voices of his friends drift out to where Alex is facing the garage doors. A new wave of terror turns his insides cold, because what if his friends don’t accept him? What if they’re like his parents?
It’s exhausting: never knowing if anyone's behavior towards him is conditional to their perceived idea of him. That nothing would be the same if they knew.
He pushes the door open. Luke’s engrossed in his six string, glancing between the instrument and a sheet of paper. Reggie and Bobby are on the couch, mid conversation. They all look up when Alex enters. Something must’ve shown on his face, or maybe it is the fact that he’s never been able to come at this time before, or maybe the tear of blood running down his cheek. Either way, they’re all sitting up with alarm.
“Alex?” Luke asks carefully, voice filled with concern. His throat burns. Suddenly Bobby’s in front of him. His eyes are darker than usual, but his hands are warm when he reaches up to tilt Alex’s face towards the light. Alex lets him. He can feel Bobby’s fingers tense when the yellow lighting of the studio catches on the blood on Alex’s face. He’s vaguely aware of it dripping down his chin, wet and hot.
“Alex,” Bobby says slowly. There’s something in his voice that Alex can’t quite place. He can tell it's anger, of some sort.
“Hmm?”
“Who the fuck did this?”
Alex meets his eyes, and feels the strange urge to laugh. He cries instead. His head drops down to Bobby’s shoulder, and Bobby’s hands move to hold the back of his head and the base of his neck. Pressure spreads across his chest, a pain mounting in his throat. His eyes burn with tears and- he has never cried in front of them before.
“I got you,” Bobby says quietly. “And I ain’t gonna let no one hurt you,” his hands tighten, holding him closer. Alex, almost instinctively, grabs onto Bobby’s shirt, closing his fists around the fabric. Acid fear flows through his stomach, and a sudden nausea hits him. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, so he just holds on as tightly as he can. “Come on,” Bobby murmurs, “let's go to the couch yeah? Get you comfortable?”
Alex takes a steading breath, and lets Bobby guide him over to where Reggie’s waiting. As soon as he’s close enough, Reggie pulls him in. Bobby climbs up on the backrest, hugging Alex closely from behind, while Reggie drapes himself over Alex’s lap, holding onto his hand.
“We got you ‘Lex,” Reggie murmurs. Alex looks for Luke. His friend is still sitting, guitar in his arm, but his fingers are turning white where they’re clutching the neck. When Luke notices he’s watching, he stands, slowly putting the instrument to the side. He walks forward as if in a trance, and drops to his knees in front of Alex.
And Alex has always known, from the moment Luke had found him in the music room, that Luke is a bleeding heart. He loves like an over-boiling pot, like lightning striking a lake. And yet, the depth of the affection in Luke's eyes is breathtaking. The pain there, for Alex. Because Alex is hurting. He notices Luke gaze slip to the trail of blood on his cheek, the crimson mixing with his slow tears. He can feel Bobby’s heart beat against his back as he hugs him a little closer. Luke lifts his hand carefully, glancing back at Alex’s eyes as if looking for a sign to stop. Alex doesn’t give him any. Luke cups Alex’s face, thumbs gently wiping the tears away. Then he leans forward, pressing their foreheads together. Bobby rests his head over Alex’s shoulder, and Reggie looks up at them from Alex’s lap.
“Thank you,” Alex whispers, “I’m sorry,”
Luke just shakes his head.
“What happened?” he leans back a little, but he keeps his hands on Alex’s jaw.
What is he supposed to do now. He’s come here, blood all over his face, started crying, something is obviously not right. His friends deserve some sort of explanation, but he can’t explain without telling them. And this - Bobby’s protective hold and Reggie’s strengthening presence and that look in Luke’s eyes - Alex couldn’t live without it. He loves them so, so much. But if they can be lost at the wake of his confession, then they were never truly his to begin with.
“I told them,” Alex says, before realizing that they probably won't understand what he means. Reggie squeezes his hand. “I mean, I told them that I’m- that-” why is this so much more difficult than telling his parents? Well he knows why: he wasn’t afraid of losing them. He is now. He’s terrified.
“I came out to them. I told them that I’m, I’m gay and he just. Mom wouldn’t, she wouldn’t listen, and she kept saying it was your fault, and that she would correct it and he- he’s never hit me in the face before-” he pauses, forcing out a slow breath. “They hate me,” he leans, almost subconsciously, into Luke’s hold. “Please don’t hate me.” I can’t survive if you hate me.
Luke’s face softens. And Alex, Alex is hit with this flood of hope because his best friend, he knows, and there’s no hate in his eyes. He still has them. Bobby shifts slightly, carding his fingers through his hair.
“You’re an idiot,” he says, “if you thought we could hate you,”
“Especially over something like this,” Reggie agrees. Luke just surges forward, wrapping his arms around Alex’s chest, burying his face in the crook of his neck.
“I love you,” he whispers. Alex hugs him back with everything he has.
“This is all very touching,” Reggie squeaks, “but I’m kinda…” Luke’s hug had effectively sandwich Reggie between their stomachs, and Bobby breaks into a laughing fit when he sees the red on Reggies face. The bassist mutters something unflattering about the guitarist, but he’s also smiling.
Luke leans backwards, tender look in his eyes. It’s quickly replaced with concern.
“Do,” Luke asks slowly, “you want to talk about it?”
“Yeah,” Alex breathes, and it’s such relief: having people who ask and people who listen, “yeah I do actually,”
Bobby slides down to sit next to him, Luke scooches back so that he’s leaning against the coffee table, and Reggie sits up again. They all keep some point of contact; Reggie holds on to his hand, Bobby presses against his side and Luke traces circles on Alex’s knee with his thumb.
“I- uhm, I realized, well I think I’ve always sort of been aware that something is different, but I didn’t realize what it was until maybe four months ago, at a party. Right before I got together with Kayla,” Alex winces, “Oh, yeah and that, Kayla and I both agreed it was for show. It was just so people would leave us alone. She, she knows. About me,”
“Wait, you told Kayla before us?” Reggie pouts, but Alex can tell he isn’t genuinely upset.
“I didn’t actually tell her anything,” Alex thinks back to that night, the pavement and the clouds, “she kind of just understood,”
Luke smiles, although Alex can tell it’s a little strained, “I’m glad you had someone who knew and supported you,” he pauses, “She did support you right?”
“Yes,” Alex says quickly, “yeah she did. Well, we never really talked about it, but she just, didn’t care. It was, it was nice. Really nice. She’s a good friend”
“So you really aren’t dating?” Reggie sighs, “Oh man, and I thought you guys were so cute. The only one of us who kept a girl for longer than a month and you’re gay,”
“Oookay,” Bobby interjects, “So you realized that you're, uh, gay, and then you start dating Kayla to like, hide it?”
“Pretty much,” Alex swallows and stares down at his lap. “And then I told my parents. I don’t even know why, I mean I knew they wouldn’t take it well, I’ve heard them talk about, about people like me. I know what they think I just. I thought that maybe… they would love me enough to change,” his voice is barely a whisper in the end. “But they don’t. They don't love me enough.”
His words hang in the air, heavy and crushing, leaving a silence that begs to be filled. “He kicked me out,” he wipes away the tears stubbornly flowing from his eyes.
“Good,” Bobby says coldly.
“Bobby,” Luke hisses, and even Reggie startles at the bluntness.
“You shouldn’t go back there, is all I’m saying. They don’t fucking love you, not if they did this, and we do. You can live here, it’s not like my parents are gonna give a fuck, and Reggie and Luke have pretty much moved in already,” Bobby looks right at him then, and the sincerity, the genuineness in his eyes is so unlike Bobby that Alex finds himself holding his breath. “You belong with us.”
“Okay,” Alex’s voice shakes, but there is no world in which he turns down Bobby’s offer,“It’s not like I have anywhere else to go,” Bobby doesn't quite smile, but something, some tension in his eyes, yields. He presses a little closer, a steady presence.
“Alex,” Reggie starts carefully, like he’s internally debating his next words, “I- okay so you don’t have to answer this, but I kinda need to ask and, so you said that your dad, he was the one that,” Reggie’s voice falter as his eyes drift to the torn open skin on his cheek, “hit you. But you said, that he’s never hit you in the face before, which kind of makes it sound like he, like he has hit you in other places,”
“It’s not like-” Alex cuts himself off, glancing at Bobby. His friend is clenching his jaw, his eyes burning with an anger that Alex thinks he understands: Bobby knows what it’s like to be hurt by someone who’s meant to protect him. Bobby also happens to be just a tad protective of his chosen family. “It’s not like that. I mean, he doesn’t just, do it, for no reason,” Alex’s face burns. Shame rises, hot and sticky in his throat. He stares down at his lap.
“Don’t defend him,” Bobby snaps.
“Hey,” Luke protests, “tone,” Bobby doesn’t answer, but he does grab Alex’s free hand, holding it with both of his.
Alex doesn’t know how to explain. His are bad parents sure, but they’re not bad people . They should have loved him, even if he isn’t what they expected. Mr Mercer's discipline may have been a bit… disproportionate, but it was still discipline. It was never anything permanent, nothing that scarred. And it was never for no reason. Even if the reasons were exaggerated or a little irrational, he only ever hurt him when Alex deserved it. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t like Bobby, or Reggie. Alex holds no warm feelings for his parents, they were oppressive and hateful and that house had been killing him. But one trait he can’t contribute to them is cruelty. They had never hurt him for their own pleasure.
His friends won’t see it that way.
“If it’s not his fault, when he would hurt you,” Luke speaks slowly, but Alex can’t stop himself from flinching at hearing it outloud, “Do you think that it’s your fault?”
Yes, Alex thinks.
“Is it my fault when my parents fight and scream at me?” Reggie asks suddenly.
“No!” Alex exclaims, disgusted by the mere thought. It doesn’t register immediately that Reggie’s only comparing their situations, not reflecting his own actual thoughts.
“Is it my fault that my folks don’t support my dreams?” Luke challenges, raising an eyebrow at him.
“No,” Alex sighs, frustration mounting because they don’t understand, “but that's not the-”
“Is it my fault when my old man uses me as his fucking ashtray?” Bobby meets his eyes steadily. Alex sucks in a sharp breath, taken back by the bluntness of the question.
“No,” Alex whispers, “God, no, Bobby that’s, that's not your fault,”
“Then it’s not your fault either,” Reggie says, leaning forward, “dumbass,”
“Yeah,” Luke adds, “He’s literally a grown ass man, he could have choosen to talk about it or resolve stuff like a normal fucking person, but he didn’t. He chose to hurt you. That's not your fault,”
“Alex,” Bobby grabs the back of his head, forcing him to look him in the eye, “It’s not your fault.”
Alex doesn’t really believe them, but he doesn’t want to argue with his friends right now. He’s pretty sure they know it too.
“Okay,” Alex says softly. “I’m sorry,” there’s a million other things he wants to say. I love you, you’re my family, you saved me, the thought of where I would be without you keeps me up at night. I love you. He exhales.
“Thank you.”
Supposedly it’s tragic when Alex dies. Two hours before their great breakthrough, two hours before playing the Orpheum. Just seventeen. Obviously Alex isn’t happy about it or anything. But he still has Luke and Reggie, and they still have music. And they find Julie, or maybe Julie finds them, and either way they all find their way back to music, together.
5
Music is his life and death. What he lived and died for; the thing that gave him life, killed him, and then brought him back again; it’s the people he loves and the most real thing he could ever feel when he’s made of air. It’s Luke and Reggie and now Julie as well. It’s his drums and the sticks in his hand, beat thrumming in his veins. It’s everything his parents wouldn’t let him have: it’s acceptance and unconditional love.
Supposedly it’s tragic, but this is a happy story.