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At some point during the –thankfully– successful recording sessions for Here Come The Tears, Bernard and Brett decided to take their show on the road before putting the album out. And although the idea was frightening, both knew they needed to warm up before the inevitable tour, which the label representatives spent the better part of 2004 setting up, once they realized the duo was serious about the project.
For Bernard, the prospect of playing festivals again was the most intimidating part of the whole deal.
“At least you can tell people to fuck off in a small venue and they’ll hear it”, he argued one late November night, unwinding on Brett’s sofa after a particularly excruciating rehearsal.
“Why do you think that’ll be necessary?” Brett asked from the kitchen, where he was pouring them both another glass of white wine.
Bernard scoffed, sitting up halfway when he heard him return. “For someone who complains about the press every two business days, you don’t seem to pay much attention to it”.
The host was visibly alarmed when he left the drinks on his coffee table. “They’re talking about it already?”
“Yeah. Saw some polls and everything”. Bernard had a sip from what he assumed was his glass, before gesturing with it as he explained. “They’re trying to figure out if we’ll play Suede songs. And if so, which ones…”
Brett drank a little as well and moved towards the couch. “Huh. Bet The Drowners’ winning”.
“Barely edging out My Insatiable One, yeah”, Bernard grimaced, abandoning his drink on the floor.
“What a fucking mess”, Brett finally sighed, collapsing on the small space left in the sofa, just by his bandmate’s feet.
Seeing the distressed look on his face, Bernard tried his darndest to amuse him. “Careful not to spill, mate”, he joked, but Brett ignored him. “I’m sure it’ll be fine”, he added a beat later.
Bernard wasn’t being honest, but they were slated to play their official “reunion” show in less than two weeks. Practicing dozens of songs they’d written on a whim over and over, with two out of three lads they barely had any rapport with as of yet, was unmistakably taking a toll on them. So the last thing they needed was Brett stressing out over the festival season in advance. He thought that his own dread at the media circus ahead was plenty for both of them.
However, spending more time together as co-workers meant that Brett caught on quickly to how he actually felt. “I don’t believe you”. His bitter look made Bernard avert his eyes before starting over.
“I’m just saying… there must be some way to go around them”.
Brett stared at the ceiling for a while, seemingly deep in thought. “I guess I could just… heckle them back if they get too rowdy”, he offered. After all, he had a habit of doing so during his old band’s first packed shows.
An image of Brett wearing a ridiculously small blouse whilst disciplining a crowd swiftly crossed the guest’s mind. “There’s a thought”, he smiled timidly.
“You think it’ll be a nightmare”. It wasn’t a question, so Bernard didn’t address it as such.
“Maybe I’m wrong, but it wouldn’t hurt to prepare for the worst case scenario”, though he wasn’t quite sure what that could be.
But instead of dwelling on the impending doom of going on tour, Brett reclaimed his role as the more impulsive one of the two a minute later. “What if we played a surprise gig? Like a… like a trial run before the real thing”.
“You mean… before the tour that’s already making us lose our minds?”, was Bernard’s deadpan reaction. Brett nodded, putting his glass aside. “Is that really a good idea?”
“Might help. Reduce the pressure”.
“I dunno…”
Determined to convince him, Brett gently pushed Bernard’s legs off the sofa so he could sit closer to him, though it didn’t bode well that he winced at the sudden contact. “Getting a feel of the audience before we… dive in properly could be the solution to all this”.
“It could… but what if it confirms what we expect?”
The singer shrugged. “Then we’ll quit”.
“Right…” Bernard rolled his eyes.
“We agreed to keep at it until one of us said ‘no more’. If you don’t feel up for it, it means we call it all off”, Brett insisted, knowing just as well as Bernard that, even on the rare occasion where he wasn’t too convinced about an endeavor, he’d rather never touch a guitar again than dropping out before finishing what he set out to do.
And Bernard hated him for it, so he pushed him away. “What a twat you are”.
“Is that a yes?”
“Not that you would take any other answer”. Brett smooched his cheek unceremoniously, earning an elbow to the ribs. “Don’t push it”.
Unbeknownst to them, the surprise gig, their first together in nearly a decade, was scheduled about a year after they’d rekindled their relationship. But despite Brett’s best intentions, the discomfort in the group continued building up until they were backstage at The Zodiac in London.
Suede songs had –as expected– been ruled out as options for their setlists, a decision that their current bandmates supported. And yet, the songwriters weren’t exactly confident that their new material was good enough to not only avoid being booed off the stage, but to warrant the always unpleasant hype.
Beyond that, although Bernard believed that his guitar playing was better than ever, neither him nor Brett could shake the concern about his recurring issue to stay in tune and on time when it was his turn to sing backing vocals, something he’d never had to worry about in their former group.
During his brief solo career, he’d learned the hard way to not give a shit about people’s opinions on his supposedly bizarre stage presence, which everyone and their mothers made a habit of making fun of in the mid to late 90s.
That being said, it had been a couple of years since he performed for a somewhat large crowd, preferring to stay in a bubble –his home studio, usually– instead of subjecting himself to more humiliation. So he could feel his old insecurities taking over as he paced around their dressing room, as well as an odd desire not to disappoint Brett.
On the other hand, the singer had just quit touring a little over a year ago, so for all intents and purposes, he wasn’t too rusty to take on the challenge. Nonetheless, not knowing how it would affect him to join Bernard on stage after such a long time genuinely troubled him.
Brett had known for a while that who he was as a frontman and who he was as a person were separate entities. But way back in the day, having to face a room full of people often closed that gap until it was nonexistent. And one byproduct of it was that the sultry persona he cultivated wasn’t just meant to entertain the crowd, but also an act he secretly hoped the guitarist would notice.
Despite those preoccupations being fresh on their minds, The Tears still managed to complete three consecutive shows with only some minor hiccups, and the average amount of nuisance coming from the audience. So they had no solid excuse to give up right away.
Something that did upset Brett on those initial dates, though, was the realization that, no matter how stoic he behaved nowadays –at least in comparison to his past, overly flamboyant self–, he was adamant to impress Bernard through his performance, who was obviously too busy displaying his virtuosity to indulge him.
It’s not that he didn’t pay Brett any mind, but he felt that the stakes were too high for him as a musician to focus on anything but work. And so, the singer tried his best to put this unreasonable self-doubt aside, and carry on with as much energy as he could, feeding off the excitement of most of the people that caught them live those first couple of months.
But then, as the album promotion began in full force, a round of nosy interviews and aggravating photoshoots threatened to undo the band during the spring of 2005. Once again, both of them felt like part of the fans and most of the press were in cahoots to break them apart.
No matter how well they got on publicly, every single journalist they encountered was obsessed with asking if the project was just a ploy to earn some easy money and they actually hated each other’s guts still. And if convinced otherwise, they would ask if that meant they were friends again. No, they’d usually reply. It’s not necessary. Yada, yada, yada.
If that weren’t bad enough, they’d later have to deal with a photographer demanding them to hold each other or lock eyes or something for whatever piece was being written on them. Sure, this was commonplace in the 90s, but they were young and didn’t feel comfortable –or were even allowed in some cases– saying no to the nice people taking their pictures.
It was that eagerness to relive a bond that wasn’t there anymore that gradually set off Bernard’s extreme awkwardness. He even brought it up to one paper right before the first single dropped, desperate to put an end to this narrative that they were picking up where the “original” Suede left off.
“I’m so fucking tired of this”, he confessed to Brett one morning over breakfast, at his own home this time.
“I know”, his partner replied gravely from the other side of the kitchen table, opting not to agree out loud mostly to avoid an argument. “At least the bullshit ends this week. Then we’ll just be doing the gigs for a while”.
“But we still have to attend some silly public events… I swear I’m developing social anxiety or something”, he rubbed one hand over his exhausted face. “I don’t know how you cope”.
Brett really did feel for him, but tried to sound detached for the sake of his following argument. “Well… I guess I've spent a little more time than you adjusting to this… performing monkey lifestyle”.
“It’s absurd, though. What we have to do in order to get the music out there”, Bernard raised his voice with every vowel.
“Sure, but for me, it’s either slowly losing my sanity or… isolating and having no career to speak of, so…”
Bernard let an inside thought escape. “I suppose it helps that you have charisma”.
“Who said you don’t have any?”, Brett asked, baffled.
“Just take the compliment”, he demanded, too embarrassed to say anything else. But the singer’s gaze was pleading him to elaborate, so he stayed disingenuous. “I think it’s common knowledge to anyone with functioning eyes, Brett”.
“My eyesight is perfectly fine. And you’re brilliant”, he patted Bernard’s left hand for good measure, who smiled unintentionally.
“Anyway…”
“I mean it”, Brett grinned back.
Bernard was eager to change the subject to literally anything else, but could not come up with a satisfying alternative for the life of him. “Thanks”.
“I genuinely think it’s harder for you because it’s not… what you’re used to anymore. And that’s fine. We’ll take it easier next time”, Brett offered a beat later.
Sure we will. “Can we even do that? Because I feel powerless right now”, Bernard admitted.
“We can drop the label. Self-release, even. I don’t know. But I’m not going to give up on us just because… the media is irritating. I guarantee you it’s not going to ruin this”, Brett assured him.
Bernard took a few seconds before deciding to come clean. “I’m just… not sure it’s worth it”.
“What do you mean?”
The guitarist rolled his eyes. Being naturally flippant was lovely, except when he faced a situation that actually required him to address his feelings. “I’m not cut out for this crap. You know this. I didn’t think… I just wanted to play with you again”.
Brett was perplexed. “We’re doing that”, he said mechanically.
“Yeah, to hundreds of screaming people who won’t even bother to listen to any of the music we worked our arses off to make. And then there’s the press and their nonsense… No one gives a shit. They just want to see us together. Nothing more, nothing less”.
“You’re being too pessimistic”. That comment seemingly frustrated him more, so Brett tried another angle. “The album isn’t even out yet. This is all going to die down after the release. It always does. You know it”.
“I don’t, actually”, Bernard insisted, his eyes fixed on the empty mug below him.
Brett thought that his anguish was palpable by then. This was exactly the kind of talk he intended to steer clear of. He’d been dreading a somewhat imminent day when, overwhelmed by the attention, or maybe tired of dealing with him –or both–, Bernard would actually quit.
Some would call it setting the cart before the horse, but they’d been in this place before. Granted, the circumstances weren’t even remotely similar now, but the idea of parting ways again, after getting so close to repairing their relationship, was enough to make him feel sick.
“Please, don’t do this”, he softly begged. Bernard looked at him, unimpressed. “The only reason I’m not breaking down too is that I’m… proud of what we’ve done. And I want to show it off with you”.
The fact that Brett could always get his way provided that he used some kind hearted words –which he was very good at, unfortunately– really got on Bernard’s nerves. Especially when they were precisely what he needed to hear, and didn’t even know it until they came out of his mouth.
He stared at his cup again, in a feeble attempt to hold back a sob. “It’s my only reason to stick around, too”.
Brett instinctively moved his chair next to Bernard’s when he realized he was getting choked up. “Sorry”, he mumbled.
“What for?”
“I didn’t mean to… you know”. Bernard giggled at the vague explanation. That encouraged Brett to place his right arm over his shoulders, even massaging one of them softly.
Bernard eventually went for a proper hug. “It’s not your fault that I need to get my shit together”.
The gesture stunned him, but Brett did not pull back. “Not yours, either”.
One of the appearances that Bernard wasn’t looking forward to at all was the taping for Jonathan Ross, which went on just a week after Brett and him agreed to keep going for the time being. And the quick chat with the show’s host prior to the performance did not calm his nerves in the slightest.
But he couldn’t deny that the last talk with Brett left him in good spirits. So much so, that his take on Refugees that night was more enthusiastic than usual, despite the fact that production asked for multiple recordings “to get it just right” for the upcoming broadcast.
To be fair, his stage presence had become increasingly confident through the relentless amount of gigs stacked up on the last days of April to push the song, which ended up charting higher than any of them expected. And to the untrained eye, it seemed like he even enjoyed being affectionate with Brett in public, as well. Something that the singer could not be oblivious to.
It began with subtle glances when he wasn’t looking –he saw the footage that proved it later than he would’ve liked, while perusing the web for reviews of their shows–, and slowly but surely evolved into unabashed flirting, usually when Brett least expected it.
The sane part of his brain got to the conclusion that it was just a bold character that Bernard created for this promotion, to distance himself from the madness at the core of the whole thing. Yet on another corner of his mind, a voice insisted that behind the facade was just his old friend, with whom he’d shared many similar moments before. Though maybe less forward than the recent ones.
It came to a head when Bernard made the most of their Top of the Pops performance at the beginning of May. Since he wasn’t actually playing guitar, he opted to dance next to Brett during the second verse. Something he couldn’t not interpret as some kind of a dare to sing those sentimental words to him.
A little flustered, Brett tried to focus on the overly enthusiastic audience of the program in order to continue without a hitch, relief washing over him the second Bernard went back to his mic. In spite of his efforts, though, nothing could wipe the smile off his face when they left the stage.
“What’s gotten into you?” He asked as he entered their shared dressing room, hoping his amusement wasn’t too transparent.
“I can’t have a little fun when I’m forced to use playback anymore?” Bernard smirked from a loveseat before chugging some water and throwing the bottle in a bin next to him.
Brett chuckled softly on his way to grab a towel and his own water from the supplies that were arranged on a table by the door. “Sure you can. Gosh, forgive me for implying you can’t”, was his farcical correction.
The guitarist studied Brett cautiously as he patted himself dry, and against his better judgement, decided to press the matter. “What are you on about, then?” He turned to look at him, still grinning, but obviously hesitant. “Come on, spit it out”.
He had a swig of water just to buy some time. “I didn’t foresee you wiggling your bum on national television, is all”, Brett almost cracked up, throwing the used towel away.
Bernard straight-up laughed. “You’re one to talk”.
“I stopped doing that a long time ago”, Brett argued in mock distaste, walking over to join him on the couch.
“Not that there ever was much to wiggle…”, he taunted the singer right as he sat down.
Brett’s eyebrows shot up in fake shock. He was still positively beaming when he gave Bernard a once-over. “Oh, is that so?”
“You tried so hard to make it look bigger, too”, he reminded him in-between laughs. “Arching your back and all”.
“How flattering of you, to pay so much attention to my arse”, Brett teased back.
Bernard narrowed his eyes, feeling defeated at his own game. “T’was hard not to”, he added anyway, a little annoyed because now Brett was triumphantly grinning as he finished his water. “Actually, it’s funny you noticed mine today, since it wasn’t on your face”.
Brett chucked the bottle on the floor. “We all saw the monitor… They caught a good shot of it”, he couldn’t restrain yet another giggle.
“Is it really that funny?”
“It was kind of hysterical”. Bernard gestured with his hand to request a better explanation. “You’re an… introverted bloke, okay? It tickles me to see you can– I dunno. Put on a show like that”. Brett was flushed by the time he finished that thought.
The tables had turned back in Bernard’s favour, just like he intended. “It’s so entertaining, getting you all riled up for no reason”.
Brett rolled his eyes and got up to leave. “Alright, will you finish packing up? Everyone else’s already gone home”.
“Aw, you don’t have to wait up for me, sweetheart”, Bernard blinked at Brett like a cartoon princess when he turned to look at him.
“Great. See you later”, the singer grabbed a blazer that was on his side of the couch, put it on in one quick motion and went to the door.
“Jesus!” Bernard’s yell made him pause, which in turn, he took as a sign to follow him and stand right in front of the exit. Just out of pettiness. “Will you take a joke?”
Brett sighed, not much playfulness left in him. “Do you mind? I’d like to spend some time with my girlfriend before our obligations make me disappear again”.
Bernard’s grin weakened. “Go on then”, he promptly got out of the way and turned towards the gear he’d abandoned on a desk by the loveseat. “Sorry for delaying your precious moments with her”.
Most of the conversation they’d just had was in good fun, but Brett could’ve sworn there was a hint of resentment in Bernard’s last words. As if there was a world in which he’d be genuinely upset or unwilling to hang out with him.
So instead of bringing down the mood even more by asking what was wrong, he just stood there, observing the guitarist collect his belongings and place them back in their respective cases without a hurry.
Bernard’s process was so meticulous, in fact, that he only realized Brett was still there some 10 minutes later, upon noticing he never heard the door being shut.
“I thought you couldn’t wait to fuck off”, he said once he’d confirmed with a glance that he was standing behind him.
The thing was that, after a little while, Brett remembered he had a good reason to stay. “I… forgot I’d promised you a pint for your inconvenience when we got on set”.
That made Bernard turn to fully face him. He didn’t seem uneasy at all. “It wasn’t too bad”. They both smiled again. “You still have to buy me a Guinness, though”.
Finding a suitable pub near the BBC premises wasn’t difficult. However, they preventively chose to sit in the most secluded booth in the place, just so that none of its customers would disrupt this brief moment of leisure to ask for an autograph or something.
Not that the tension between them had fully dissipated by then. They waited for their beers in silence to avoid another row, and maybe put too much faith in the alcohol’s effects to maintain the peace for the rest of the night.
“How many rounds do you think we’ll have?” Bernard wondered mostly to himself after about two sips, whilst looking at his watch. “So I can ring home if I’m out too late”.
“On a Friday? Really?” Brett raised one eyebrow.
Bernard felt very close to snapping. “Well, excuse me for having a family that prefers to know my whereabouts”.
Instead of coming up with a harsher comeback, as it would certainly escalate things, Brett opted to answer the original question. “I might order one more round before we take off”.
Bernard nodded. “Don’t know if I can handle more than that tonight”.
“Right there with you”, the singer added before having a big swig in order to rearrange his thoughts. “So… how are things back home?”
“Let’s not…” Bernard smiled despite himself. “We need to accept that small talk isn’t our thing”.
It was true, but Brett felt like every other topic would have them walking on eggshells. He still laughed as he went for another try. “Alright… then… Can I make a… casual observation?”
The guitarist drank some more as he decided on an answer. “Go on”.
Brett was looking at him guiltily before blurting it out. “It’s still so weird to think that you’re a father… No offense”.
Bernard chuckled. “None taken”.
“That’s not to say you’re not good at… what it entails. And you seem to like it”, he added clumsily, just so that he didn’t come across as a prick.
“I love it”, Bernard eagerly rectified, but fearing he’d get emotional if he were to stay on that topic, he kicked the ball back to Brett’s court. “D’you want kids someday?”
Why did I bring this up in the first place? He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Not sure… It’s not the worst idea in the world but I don’t–”
“See yourself as a parent?” Bernard suggested.
“Yeah, exactly. Plus, I have this… admittedly trite fear that… I’ll turn out to be just as cruel as my father once was”, Brett dejectedly explained.
Bernard furrowed his brow. “Just because he raised you and you have his genetics doesn’t mean you are him”, he argued.
“I know, but–”
Sensing that Brett was getting increasingly agitated, Bernard just talked over him to get the point across. “I mean, I adored my dad and all, but our parenting styles could not be more different. It’s just… not the kind of thing you inherit, you know? I promise you’ll do fine, if you ever get there”.
The encouraging words took Brett by surprise, so he had to compose himself for a minute or two. “Thank you”, he eventually replied, though failing to make eye contact with Bernard. He chose to stare at the table instead, as he wracked his brain for a compliment he could pay him in return.
“I haven’t been there for any of it, clearly, but I’m sure you’re great at it. Like you are at everything else”, Brett said some time later.
This shocked Bernard too, but he was always better at deflecting. “Stop, I’m blushing”, he simply retorted, making Brett laugh again.
Four rounds and one phone call to Bernard’s wife later, the pub started clearing out, but the duo was too invested in their drunken conversation to notice. That was, until Brett had an unprompted look at his watch.
“Oh, god”.
Bernard was too sloshed for words. “W-what is it?”
“I think– We need to go”, Brett mumbled hurriedly as he searched his pockets.
“Why?! Why now?!” Bernard shouted right when Brett found his wallet.
“Will you keep it down?!” He replied at the same volume, provoking the laughs of the remaining clientele. “It’s like– past 2 in the morning. You said–”
“Oh fuck– I can’t–”, Bernard panicked, lying face down on the table. “Elisa hasn’t seen me this hammered in ages…”
His reaction worried Brett even more. “So what should we do?”
Bernard tried his best to compose his lightheaded self, carefully sitting back up. “Erm… maybe– I can crash on your place? I’ll text her”.
“No– I mean, yeah… should have it to myself tonight…” He trailed off, scrambling to remember if his girlfriend would be waiting there for him or not.
“I’m sorry, I really– I shouldn’t have–”
Brett made a courageous attempt to think straight in order to have him snap out of it, though he slurred through most of his big speech. “Bernard, it’s going to be okay. It’s a Friday night. Just… tell her what happened. She’ll see it in the morning and think nothing of it”.
“You sure?” Bernard looked dangerously close to having an alcohol-induced cry.
“I am”, Brett insisted, getting up with the sole purpose of helping him stand before he made a scene. “Let’s– pay and go wait for a taxi, okay?”
Bernard nodded slowly, and did not make a fuss when he was lifted by his arms and escorted out of the pub by his partner. A cab happened to roll by right as he sent a poorly written message to his wife.
As he was still quite tipsy, Brett was surprised that he managed to tell the driver the correct address. Bernard, on the other hand, was wiped as soon as they climbed inside the car.
It took crossing a couple of blocks for Brett to realize he’d drifted off, though. “C’mon, don’t fall asleep yet”, he nudged him awake.
“S-sorry”, Bernard sighed, but his eyelids would not cooperate. Not long after, he dozed off again, his head landing on Brett’s shoulder. He decided he didn’t mind that much.
The struggle resumed when he had to get him out of the taxi and into the house, that in the end was empty. Thank god, thought Brett, just as Bernard finally regained some consciousness, figuring out where he was and how badly he needed to use the toilet, where he ran to rather hastily, given his state.
Brett used this spare time to drop by the kitchen and down a full glass of water, and later grabbed the warmest quilt he could find in the bedding closet for his unexpected guest. Then, as he returned to the living room, he saw Bernard quite literally falling face first on his sofa.
Feeling like the protagonist of a cheesy romcom, Brett approached him as quietly as he could, and carefully covered him with the comforter, but still managed to wake him up. Bernard looked at him, a little startled. “Everything okay?”
Bernard’s throat made a concerning noise. “Nnn– yeah”, he muttered. “Actually I– I think I’ll sit for a while”, he added after a pause, bringing a fist to his lips as he straightened up.
“Really? ‘Cause I can go get–”
“No, I can make it go away”, Bernard grabbed Brett’s arm just to make sure he wouldn’t go anywhere. Their eyes met again. “You going to bed?”
Brett swallowed. “I’m… yeah, I think so”.
“Okay… Night”, Bernard shut his eyes but remained mostly seated.
Instead of going to his bedroom though, Brett’s gut told him he should run to the kitchen for another glass of water and rejoin him. So he did.
“Would you like me to stay? For a bit?” He whispered once he got back.
Bernard blinked slowly after hearing him speak again. “Yeah”, he softly answered, making some space for him on the other side of the couch.
“Don’t worry, I’ll sit on the table–”
“Come on”, Bernard cut him off as he received the water, which he drank in one go, abandoning the cup on the carpet. “It’s your house. And I promise I won’t puke”.
Brett chuckled, but obliged. “How’re you feeling?” He eyed him curiously.
“I’ve been better…” He sighed. “Maybe I’m too old for this”.
“Nonsense, just a moment of weakness”, Brett smiled at him.
Bernard studied him for what –in Brett’s drunken haze– felt like a lifetime, and then looked at the ceiling. “It’s really… something”.
“What is?”
“You make being wasted seem so… chic… Meanwhile, I’m a fucking… blob here, barely holding down the nausea”, he laughed faintly.
Brett shook his head, still smiling. “I don’t know what you’re talking about”.
“Well, I’m drunk, so that’s allowed”, Bernard argued.
“So am I, to be fair… and I feel rubbish”, Brett assured him, just as a headache got a hold of him.
Bernard stood his ground. “You don’t look it”.
The pair stared at each other for a minute. Brett felt like they were approaching dangerous territory, so he broke the silence. “Erm… d’you want to get some sleep? Or shall I talk you through it…”
“Actually… Is there a pillow I can borrow?” Brett immediately got up to fetch one, and came back with it just as quickly, tapping Bernard’s shoulder so he would let him place it behind his head. “Oh… thanks”.
Both got a little dizzier when they locked eyes yet again. “No worries”, Brett replied, frozen in place. This is bad.
“Something wrong?” Bernard asked, seemingly distracted.
“Can I…” The colour in Brett’s cheeks betrayed him before he could blurt out what was on his mind, so Bernard nodded instead of waiting for the request he knew he’d make.
Cautiously, Brett closed the short distance between them and gave Bernard a peck on the lips, as to confirm he had his permission to do this. He only relaxed when he kissed him back, straddling him decidedly and caressing one side of his face.
Bernard sat up a little more and held onto Brett’s shoulders when their tongues met, something he didn’t anticipate in a million years but couldn’t bring himself to reject.
“Wait”, Brett pleaded breathlessly after a few minutes, though barely separating from him.
Bernard kissed him again briefly, too impatient to hear him say anything. “I don’t think we have much time for that”.
Whatever explanation Brett had conjured up did not stick the landing when he saw the hungry look in Bernard’s eyes. “I mean–”
“Yes?”
Avoiding Bernard’s gaze, Brett pulled back some more and sighed loudly. “I– we’re not… of a sound mind right now and I’m worried–”
The inevitable consequences of what they were doing finally dawned on Bernard. There was no way to spin this. It was a mistake. “Right. You’re right”, he acknowledged, letting go of him and fixing his hair as a pretext to look away, too.
Brett feared he’d hurt him, so he held his face with both hands and tried to make his intentions clear. “I want to… so much… but I prefer to stop before we regret something that should be…”
“Joyful”, Bernard added, suddenly feeling even more tired than when he first got to his place.
Crushed, but trying to keep it together, Brett eventually returned to his spot on the sofa. Although Bernard drifted off again a couple of minutes later, he was incapable of leaving him right away. His mind wouldn’t stop replaying what had just happened, and his skin still burned from the much desired contact.
The thing is, they could blame the alcohol for everything, but even if they forgot the details of what went down, especially how badly they’d wanted each other, if only for a moment, it wouldn’t make this any less real.
Brett only trudged towards his bedroom by the time his own eyes would not stay open.
Bernard was gone the next morning, and he didn’t hear from him again for about two weeks, until they were forced to meet at rehearsals, since the tour was resuming at the end of the month. Brett already had a feeling they were screwed.