It starts with Zach. Since watching him that night in the hotel room, I’ve tried to catch more glimpses of him onstage. I have to do it with a measure of subtlety, though, in case it gets too obvious and someone from Chorus reprimands us.
So, as surreptitiously as possible, I steal glances at him, marveling at the way he bites his lip unconsciously when the tempo picks up and the choreo speeds with it. His little smiles at the audience. The damp strands of hair he pushes back from his head with spread fingers.
And while I’m doing it, a black ball of bitterness coils in my stomach. Because I shouldn’t have to train my eyes to look anywhere but him, when they simply want to trail back to him and his magnetic pull.
I try to picture how Chorus will announce our relationship.
I try to picture us holding hands on this very stage.
But I can’t.
Then I turn my attention to Jon. The way he bites his lip on purpose, seducing the crowd like he’s been taught to. His lust-ridden, crooked smiles, directed at whichever lucky girl he can find in the nosebleed section. The way he spreads his fingers apart as he runs his hand over his thighs, sending a ripple of charged electricity through the audience.
And the bitterness grows. Because he’s an unwilling puppet.
Then I look to Angel. The way his lips are parted as he drags in labored, exhausted breaths—he’s not high tonight, but he looks like he had a hell of a time last night. The way his smiles resemble smirks, like he can’t quite commit to them. The way he balls his hands into fists whenever we stop dancing, like he’s laden with tension he can’t get out any other way.
And the bitterness surges. Because I just don’t think he’s okay. And there’s nothing I can think of to stop this train from derailing.
The bitterness must show on my face, because people give me a wide berth backstage. Zach asks me a couple of times if I’m okay, while we change, and on the drive home, but I just smile tightly and say I’m fine.
I get a message from Mom, and I send her a quick response. After a few back and forths, I give myself a quick break. I don’t have the capacity right this moment. I’ll message her in twenty or so, before she gets too worked up, and tell her my phone ran out of battery or something.
At the hotel, nestled in the bustling center of Budapest, Angel disappears to his room, and Jon disappears to his, and Zach and I escape into mine. Once we’re alone, I feel the bitterness start to uncoil just a little. Things always seem more manageable when I’m with just him.
Zach kicks off his shoes and sits on the bed, holding his arms out. “Do you wanna talk about it?”
I shrug and climb onto the bed beside him, letting him wrap me into a cocoon of a hug. The pressure of his touch melts some of the tension from my back. We sit in silence for a long while, Zach scrolling his phone with his free hand, me breathing in the scent of his chest until the rhythm of my heartbeat slows to match his. Usually, we’d be tearing each other’s clothes off around about now. But tonight—for now, anyway—I just want quiet closeness.
After a while, Zach lowers his phone, and runs his fingers through my hair. I could fall asleep like this, resting my head on his chest. But I think we need to talk.
“I’m just worried about the whole coming-out thing,” I say finally. “What if they don’t let us tell people after Russia?”
He pauses mid-stroke. “They said they would.”
“I know. But what if they don’t?”
Zach pulls away from me. He leaves behind the ghost of his touch on my skin. I wish I hadn’t said anything, and I’d let him hold me for hours.
“Well,” he says. “I don’t know. What can we do if they don’t?”
I chew on my thumbnail. “That’s not exactly a comforting response.”
Zach’s smile is soft and warm. “Hear me out, okay? So what if they don’t ever let us come out?”
Hah. He did not seriously just say that to me, did he? “What do you mean ‘so what’?” I ask thinly.
“I mean, let’s say they don’t. That doesn’t mean we lose each other. You’ll have me no matter what. Whether the world knows or not.”
I try to process his words. Where the hell has this come from? “It’s not about that. It’s about being controlled.”
“We’ve kept things private before.”
“But this is about who we are,” I shoot back. “It’s the principle.”
“I don’t think you’re this upset about a principle, Ruben. What’s really worrying you, here? Like, really?”
Well. I don’t exactly think I need a reason to be mad about being forced to hide my sexuality from the world indefinitely. But I’ll bite. “Where do we draw the line? It’s not just about what we say in interviews. What if people start wondering why we don’t ever have girlfriends, and they make us pretend to have them to shut down the rumors? What if one of us gets sick, and they won’t let the other visit us in hospital without the whole band because people will ask questions? This will affect a lot, Zach.”
“Oh.” He goes quiet, and stares at the bed, his brow furrowing. I can’t read his face.
Oh my God. Is this like when Zach came out to the band? Is he just going along with this? “Do you … not want to go public?”
“No, I do. It’s not that. I just wondered if it’d be that big a deal if we didn’t.”
“If you don’t want to come out publicly, that’s different. You know that, right?”
“Right, totally. I just … forget it. I hadn’t thought about all those things you said. You have a good point.”
I study him. “You sure?”
“I’m sure.” He squeezes my hand. “I hope we’re able to, then.”
Something seems off about this. Zach’s weirdly detached, and I can’t quite tell if he’s agreeing with me because he agrees with me, or because he knows I want him to agree with me. On something this monumental, the thought that he doesn’t feel like he can express his own opinion worries me. He has to know that this is the one area where he can’t just agree with everyone else to keep the peace and call it a day, right?
Frowning, I pick up my phone to find a stream of messages from Mom and Jon.
Mom’s are expected.
Why aren’t you answering?
Hello? I can see you’re online.
Okay, now you’re offline.