“Please. Let me emphatically state I am not a catch.”
Brian, camped out in their beanbag chair, nested deeper into the beans and put his hands behind his head. “I’ll allow you don’t have the whole dark-Bieber thing going on your honey does, but you aren’t some pockmarked freak, either. I think you’re not playing to your type. You’re lithe and elegant, and when you use that, you don’t come off half bad. You could rock a tight black shirt and eye makeup.”
“Even with guyliner I wouldn’t be as pretty as Aaron, not by half.”
“So what? Who ever said only pretty people can hook up with pretty people? And why does pretty have to be about meeting a certain mold?”
They’d wandered off point somehow. “It’s not about being pretty or not. It’s that everyone is looking at me all the time now. Makes me feel naked.”
“Give them something else to stare at, then.” Brian shrugged. “Or don’t. But yeah, one way or another you need to find a way to not let other people’s attention, good or bad, ruin your life.”
While Giles appreciated this sentiment, he had no idea how to actualize it. When he realized he was thinking shit like how do I actualize not letting other people’s attention ruin my life, he shut off all thought.
One day in late January, right before the quarterfinals, Giles was in the White House when Baz came home. The main floor had turned into Salvo/Ambassador Grand Central, and Giles had been in there for two hours with Aaron and Karen, trying to perfect the bridge of their performance number. Everyone else had gone off for sandwiches, but Giles elected to hang back and enjoy the silence for a few minutes. That was when Baz came in.
Giles wanted to hate him, but it wasn’t possible. As he spent more and more time in the White House, Giles watched Baz quietly take care of all his friends, making sure there were groceries, always keeping one eye on people, making sure they weren’t too down.
Today it was Baz who seemed down. After dropping his keys on the counter, Baz slouched wearily into the chair opposite Giles. “Yo, what’s up?” Reaching for the plaid glasses case on the table, he swapped the sunglasses he was wearing for…another pair of sunglasses. Giles had seen him do that before, but it always seemed like a gimmick. Somehow this time it didn’t.
Giles watched the exchange with a frown but didn’t comment on it. “Waiting for everyone to get back before we dig into the next planning round. Karen and Damien had this idea for a joint number we could do for the end-of-year concert. Something so that no matter who goes forward in the competition, we can show the regents Salvo and the Ambassadors are a united front. I’m not exactly sure why we’re practicing now, but whatever.”
“Strike while the iron is hot. If you guys finally cave and let me sing ‘Titanium’, I’ll enlist my mom for the fight.”
“I really think that one needs orchestra behind it to work.”
“Then put in orchestra.” Baz snuck his thumb and index fingers beneath the band of his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose, wincing. It wasn’t a standout gesture on its own, but it went on too long, and when he put his hand down again, Giles saw lines of tension around the other man’s mouth. Only for a moment, though. Then Baz had his wry smile in place. “Aaron seems a lot happier these days, so good job, Giles.”
Giles wanted to be defensive, but Baz had all but written I will not poach your man on the walls of the White House. “I’m not sure I did much.”
The smile spread a little wider. “Don’t be so Minnesota. You’re good for him. Own that shit.”
“Um, thanks.” Giles floundered for a way to take the conversation off himself. “How do you get out of the Minnesota Nice, anyway? Did they hand out antigens at your high school or something?”
“I got out of it by being from Chicago. Land of gangsters and crooks. Too much politeness there will get you killed.”
The statement had a weird taint, like it was half a joke and half horribly serious. “What in the world are you doing at Saint Timothy if you’re from Chicago?”
“Because I wanted out of Chicago.” Baz rubbed at his eyes again, and this time there was no mistaking his pain.
“Are you okay?”
“Headache.” Baz kept rubbing. His lips pursed too.
“Can I get you something? Or should I shut up so you can be miserable in peace?”
Baz snorted a soft laugh, though he still grimaced and rubbed at the bridge of his nose a few more times. “Silence doesn’t make it go away, just makes it the only thing I can think about.” He pulled his hand away from his face and placed it flat on the table. “But don’t feel like you need to humor me if you have better things to do.”
The idea that he, dorky first-year Giles, could be welcome company to Baz was too much ego candy to resist. “I’ll try to keep the niceness to a reasonable level.”
That made Baz’s smile return, though he still seemed tense. “Days like this I miss Keeter, the bitchy queen who graduated last May. He’d pick a fight with me, we’d cuss at each other until we were exhausted, and then he’d drive me around blasting Maino until our ears bled.”
“Sorry, I don’t think I can do bitchy queen, and I don’t know any rap. I’m all clueless geek.”
Baz blew a gentle raspberry in dismissal. “Not even close. You’re too busy rabbiting right now to know who you are, but you’ll get there.”
“Rabbiting?”
“Every time I see you, you’re all tense and paranoid, as if any second someone’s going to jump you. Like maybe even once someone did, and you’re waiting for it to happen again.”
Good God, was he that obvious? Giles became abruptly interested in the table. “A few times it got…bad.”
“Names, or bashing?”
Giles kept his gaze down. “Both.”
Baz pulled two toothpicks from a jar on the table and stuck them in the corner of his mouth, rolling them as he spoke. “Where are you from, soldier?”
“Alvis-Henning.”
Baz snorted and held up his hand for a high-five. “Shit. The land of gay suicide and pray away the gay.” He accepted Giles’s reluctant hand slap. “I’d ask if it was as bad as they said on the news, but I blew a guy once who came from there. He curled my toes with some of his stories.”
“I made things worse for myself because I fucked them. Would have been smarter to turn them down, but I couldn’t ever seem to. It always felt like a fuck you, even though I’m not sure it was. Plus, they were usually hot.”
Baz laughed. “Mulder, I like your style. Keep on telling me stories. I think your tactics might be better than Keeter, but the jury’s still out.”
“You’ve kind of tapped me out. Horrible, cowering existence, a few trips to the ER, and now I’m trying to figure out how I ended up with Aaron. I read a lot, play strategy games on the Xbox, help transpose pop songs. Very boring.”
“You transpose like a motherfucker.” He winced and swore softly under his breath as he rubbed his eyes again. “Shit. Sweetheart, will you do me a favor? Pull the curtain and kill the lights.”
There was only one window in the room, and it wasn’t letting in a stream of light or anything, but Giles did as he was bid. The fabric was heavy and lined with blackout fabric, and when Giles closed it, the room dimmed significantly. When he flipped the switch, because the door to the living room was closed, the kitchen went almost completely black.
“Whoa,” he said, suddenly unsure how he’d get to the table without killing himself.
“Flip the switch right next to the one you just hit.”
Giles did, and the kitchen was immediately bathed in an almost creepy red glow. Baz pulled off his glasses and leaned back in his chair so that his now-naked eyes could stare up at the freakish red ceiling. “God. Thank you.”
Giles returned to his seat. “Is something wrong with your eyes?”
“I have photophobia. Eyes all fucked up for
light, and sometimes I get crazy-stupid headaches, especially when I get stressed out or pissed. Red light’s okay for some reason, so I have a few places wired with crimson bulbs so I can still see but don’t have to feel the strain.” He touched his left shoulder. “Have a plate here, a few bionic ribs, a trick hip. It’s the eyes that are the real bitch, though. Won’t ever drive again, bad as a vampire for sunlight.”
Jesus, Giles felt like an idiot. “I had no idea. I’m sorry.”
Baz quirked an eyebrow at him, and it was weird to actually see his eyes while he did it. He didn’t look half so smooth, less Robert Downey Jr. and more Mark Ruffalo. “Why are you sorry? Because you thought I was copping some kind of attitude with the shades? No problem, it’s what I want people to think. That would be the other reason I left Chicago, because too many people know the story of how I got to wear sunglasses at night, and they act like I’m blind and stupid. I’d rather them think I’m cocky and stupid. The professors know, which is why they let me wear them in class. The guys at the house keep it quiet for me. So go back to thinking I’m a piece of shit or whatever. Don’t be sorry.”
Giles had no idea what to say, so he simply sat there for a few minutes. “That’s kind of slick, actually.”
“If you don’t want them to think about something you know they will, give them something else to focus on instead. Works every time.”
“That’s what my roommate said. Except I can’t figure out the something else I want them to look at.”
Baz removed the now-chewed-up toothpicks and snagged some M&Ms from a bowl on the table instead. “Hair. Clothes. Attitude. Colors. The way you talk, the way you walk. Pick a card, any card, or try a few.”
“Yeah, but how do you not feel like a fraud? Or a blithering idiot?”
“Start by letting go of the idea there will ever be a day you find the safe space where how you look or dress or walk or talk or whatever will be okay. Some piece of shit is always going to show up and judge you, and some of them will fuck you up. It’s scary, but that’s why you give them a straw man. You don’t want it to be something you can’t pull off—don’t go for witty sarcasm if you can’t dish it up. You want it to feel good. You, but on steroids. It’s like armor. It’s got to take the dings you don’t want. I could give a fuck if someone thinks I’m a poser, but I have a hell of enough of a time accepting I have a disability. You figure out what would make a good front for you, and that’s what you use.”
Giles wanted to ask how Baz had come by this disability, but he ate some chocolate instead and made himself consider his potential suits of armor. “My roommate suggested guyliner. I kind of dig the idea, but I’m not sure I want that every day.”
“I can see it. Would definitely get you laid in a club. It hides your nervousness too—people look at the makeup instead of you. If you wore it to class, though, the message changes. You’d have to work up a bit of piss-on-you attitude to go with it. To be a friendly guy in eyeliner is a whole different persona.”
“Well, I usually hate everyone a little, so piss-on-you would be good. Though I’d also feel guilty.”
“Why? Fuck the nice. You don’t want them invading your space? Put up a fuck you sign. Most people will back up.” He tipped his neck to the side, eliciting a few soft cracks. “I’m going to pop a narcotic and sleep the last of this off.” As he rose, he extended a fist to Giles. “Thanks for the cooldown. Work your shit, honey.”
Giles gave him an awkward fist bump and sat in the strange red glow a long time after Baz left, thinking.
Chapter Twenty-One
Salvo and Ambassadors’ quarterfinal competition was the last weekend of January at the University of Minnesota–St. Paul, and as the day of the performance approached, Aaron felt like the happiest frayed nerve in the world. He’d slept an average of three hours a night the whole week before the competition, and the night before his conducting final he didn’t sleep at all.
Then, the day before they left for the competition, his father called.
He hadn’t said much, only that he’d be coming to collect Aaron for the weekend. His tone was clipped, brusque, and when Aaron explained he couldn’t get away until the official between-term break, his father’s reply was so brittle Aaron thought ice had to be forming on his cell phone.
He knew. Aaron’s dad knew about his major, maybe about Giles—and he was pissed.
Giles made him stay over, held him and whispered over and over it would be okay. “I’ll go home with you for break. I’ll drive you, come in with you if you want.”
“You can’t come with me. That’ll only make it worse.” Aaron snuggled in close, his heart sinking. “I knew this had to happen eventually. I just…wasn’t ready.”
“We’ll face it together.” Giles kissed his hair. “Get some sleep. We have a huge day tomorrow.”
Aaron didn’t sleep much, and his dreams were fitful. He hated that his dad had cast a shadow over the big day. He’d been so excited, but the phone call had put shit-colored glasses on him.
“It’s going to be ten kinds of hell if both groups don’t final,” Aaron pointed out as they settled into their seats on the bus. “And even if they do, only one group per region can go all the way to New York.”
“We’ll root for whoever wins. We’re a team.”
“Then why can’t we be that for real? Why does it have to be girls and guys? Why can’t we be one group and be done with it? Why can’t the orchestra be in it too?”
“Because it’s a cappella.” Giles smoothed a hand over Aaron’s hair. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just a competition. It’s supposed to be fun.”
“Competing against each other isn’t fun. All we want to do is make music. We shouldn’t have to prove anything.” Aaron stared out the window, watching the frozen landscape go by. “It’s people like my dad who make us compete. Make us choose.”
Giles shushed him, fed him platitudes. Aaron swallowed them, but he didn’t believe them.
Aaron loved Salvo. He wanted them to win, to go all the way to New York. They were his work—his and Giles—and he wanted them to succeed. Not win stupid contests. Succeed.
Working with groups like Salvo was what Aaron wanted to do. That’s what he wanted to be known for: helping other people sing. He had a solo for the Ambassadors’ set, but he didn’t care about it. Singing was fine, but composing, arranging music? That’s what he wanted to do with his life. Craft song in his head, in practice rooms, in the shower, then find the way to make it come to life. Even when he was only watching dress rehearsals in the Saint Timothy auditorium, hearing his music played and sung made Aaron feel like a magician shooting light from his fingertips.
It wasn’t saving lives in a hospital or rescuing million-dollar deals in a courtroom. It might not pay enough to live on—unquestionably it wouldn’t ever please his dad. Aaron didn’t care. This was his joy. This was what he wanted.
Music, with Giles beside him, his friends surrounding them. That was his life right now, and it was perfect. He hated having to put it up to a contest. He was done with being judged, being weighed and measured, being other people’s performing monkey. Done.
So done that ten minutes before the Ambassadors were due onstage, he bailed.
“I can’t do it.” He curled up in the corner, shut his eyes and drew his knees to his chest when Giles tried to coax him to his feet. “No. I can’t. I won’t. Not anymore, Giles. Not anymore.”
Baz came over and crouched in front of Aaron. “Peanut, what’s wrong?”
Giles started to explain, but Aaron looked Baz dead in the eye and rode over his boyfriend. “I won’t do the solo. I won’t sing. Fuck the regents. Fuck my dad. I’m done.”
He tensed, ready for Baz to fight, but if anything Baz’s tone gentled. “Sure, babe. I can take the solo if you’re not up to it.” He took off his glasses and leaned forward, squinting a moment before steadily meeting A
aron’s gaze. “But I need you to come out with us.”
Aaron hissed a breath. “I won’t—”
“Not for the regents. Not for your dad. Not for any of those fuckers. For us, Aaron. For the Ambassadors.”
“We don’t need a stupid competition to tell us who we are.”
“No, we don’t. But there are a lot of guys for whom this is a big moment. Marius hasn’t ever been to New York, and he’d love to go with his brothers. It would look great on Damien’s résumé to have an ICCA win. We’re using this thing as much as it’s using us.” He stroked Aaron’s cheek. “Mostly, though, this is a chance for you and fifteen other guys to go out there and show everybody how hard we rock. Because it feels good to strut our stuff. Because we’re gonna clean up this competition, us and Salvo. Then one of us will go to New York, and whoever doesn’t win will go to cheer the others on. Because that’s how we roll.”
Aaron deflated, tears pricking his eyes. “I hate this so much.”
“I know, hon. Let’s go flip them the bird together.” He pressed a kiss to Aaron’s forehead. “Up you pop, squirt. Time to shine.”
Giles took his hand when he rose, led Aaron all the way to the edge of the stage and sent him out with a toe-curling kiss.
Aaron felt out of body on the stage, all his bad feelings still swirling, but as soon as the lights came up and Damien hummed out the first note, Aaron fell into line. At first he went through the motions, but it didn’t take long for the music to infect him. It was still music, and it still spoke to his soul.
They performed a continuous song mashup rather than single numbers to fill out their twelve-minute set, at Aaron’s suggestion peppering bits of “Dynamite” throughout. It was a good arrangement, but during the performance Aaron realized how much of it happened because of the music combined with the men performing it. Marius and Trevor and the rest of the baseline set up a foundation everyone else stood on—but no one, not even the soloists, stepped out from the group.
Baz wrenched the room with the solo meant to be Aaron’s, working it like a stripper pole, but he channeled the energy into the group, yanking his brothers up with him into the frenzy of glory. The result was a whirling vortex of energy feeding back and forth between the audience and the Ambassadors, Baz at the center of the nexus. When it came time for Aaron to move briefly into the center for the bridge, he pushed the last of his dark clouds aside and gave Baz a run for his money on showmanship. Baz grinned and ad-libbed a subtle grind with Aaron that probably scraped right against the edge of the ICCA’s dictate of family-friendly choreography.
Fever Pitch Page 23
