For once, I’m going to be the vicious one. For all the times I chose to whisper when I needed to roar.
“The best part of our job is you,” I say, my voice booming over the crowd again. “Seeing you all, meeting you backstage, reading your messages to us. You don’t hold back with us. You show us everything, every vulnerable bit of yourselves. You trust us with that. Do you know how powerful that is? Because it’s a gift, and it’s one we’re beyond lucky to receive. The wildest part is, you don’t even demand anything back. We don’t deserve the love you give us. We’re just four guys who met at music camp one year, and now we have the world, because you saw us, and you decided to give us the world. Just because.”
Jon’s nodding emphatically. Zach isn’t taking his eyes off me.
“The worst part of our job,” I say, willing the sudden shake out of my voice, “is how long we’ve been forbidden to give the same back to you. For years now, we’ve been boxed in and told who we’re allowed to be. We’ve had our names taken from us, and we’ve had our dignity taken from us. We’ve been forced to cross moral lines we aren’t comfortable with. We’ve been dressed in clothes we don’t like, and we’ve been taught to say lies as naturally as if they were the truth. And the more we’ve tried to reach out to you, and recover ourselves, the more we’ve been reined in. But we want you to see us. Deep inside, I think we’ve all hoped that maybe, you saw us anyway. Like, the Angel you just saw? The one jumping all over the stage? That’s about a quarter of the energy we get from him.” Angel pretends to shoot me a dirty look, and I narrow my eyes right back at him. “On a quiet day,” I add, and the audience laughs. “And Jon? He’s always got his eye on other people, constantly ready to help them, and tell them what they need to hear. He’s sweet, and he’s gentle, and he’s someone you want there for you in a crisis. And Zach—” My voice cracks, and I steady myself. Here goes nothing. “Zach—”
“Ruben,” Zach whispers. I pause, and turn to him. He holds his hand out for the microphone. I draw my eyebrows together in a question as he takes it from me. “I don’t want this to be something that just happens to me,” he whispers, before bringing the microphone up. At first I misunderstand him, and think he’s changed his mind. Then my words from our fight last week come back to me, and I realize.
“Ruben and I have been forced to hide things, too,” Zach says. “The biggest one being that Ruben is my boyfriend. We’re together, and we have been for a little while now.”
The noise that comes from the crowd isn’t one I’ve ever heard before. I can’t pinpoint the emotion, or even if it’s positive or negative overall. The best word for it is probably, simply, shock.
“We’re telling you this because the freedom to be ourselves, and express whatever truest version of ourselves we know of to the world as we see fit, is the most important freedom we have. We want that freedom back, even if the truth is something not everyone wants to hear from us.” Zach blinks, looks at the microphone like he’s just noticed he’s holding it, then hastily passes it back to me. I guess what he’s just done has hit him all at once.
I finish for him. “We’re standing here sharing it with you, sharing ourselves with you, because we love you. We trust you. We respect you. Most importantly, we think you deserve more from us than just a well-choreographed show. And so do we.”
I place the microphone back on the stand and look at the cameras with my head held high. There’s nothing to hide behind, now. No persona. Just me—us—and the crowd, and the millions of eyes that will pore over the clip of this very moment today, tomorrow, and for the rest of our lives.
Taking Zach’s hand in mine, I turn to the crowd. At first, I see it as a whole. It writhes, and cheers, and yells. Then I look closer, and focus in on some faces. Someone in the third row is covering her mouth with both hands as she jumps on the spot. Fifth row center, a girl stands still, staring at us with a slack jaw, while the girl next to her waves their clasped hands in the air. In row two, toward the left, two boys hug each other. One seems to be crying into the other’s chest, but he turns his head just enough for me to confirm they’re tears of joy.
I drag my gaze across the rows slowly, meeting the gaze of as many individuals as I can. There’s nothing between us. For the first time, I don’t feel like I’m looking down on them from unreachable heights with an impenetrable wall separating us. Suddenly, I belong to the crowd. I’m part of them. We all are. All four of us.
The band plays the opening chords to “Unsaid,” and Zach lets out an exhilarated breath and turns his head to look at me. He swings our linked hands up between us, hailing the crowd, and a cheer swells up to greet us back in return.
I smile and lift my mic to start the first verse, Zach’s hand still in mine.
TWENTY-EIGHT
ZACH
As soon as the cameras turn off, chaos breaks out.
We’re pretty much pulled offstage by security guards. The crowd starts to boo, at them, not us. At least it seems that way.
“Zach, we love you!” calls someone.
Backstage, Erin is waiting for us.
“What have you done?” she asks, her eyes wide. “I can’t fix this.”
She brings her phone up and charges off down a hallway, I guess to get some space. Seems Angel definitely got what he wanted.
We’ve wreaked havoc.