by K. L. Noone
He did have a different present for Justin, one that involved a signed copy of the amazingly rare Dylan Morrison memoir; but he also had a few other ideas, or he was starting to.
He checked the time—Justin would be back early; they had some decisions to make about the seating arrangements—and made more tea, because Earl Grey fortification would be necessary to sort out the tangle of musicians and friends and Justin’s extensive and elaborate Filipino family and demonic relatives who might or might not teleport in. He made coffee too, and got out some cheese and bread, because his future husband would, as usual, be hungry.
* * * *
The invitation stationery they agreed on was mostly white, but had shimmery crimson ink, and delicate music notes interwoven with flames. They’d looked at a few other designs, samples, ideas; this one had been the one. The only option. On the spot.
Justin had been the one who’d found it—courtesy of an underground art scene friend who did design work, he’d said—and had shown Kris. Kris had loved it instantly.
As Justin would’ve known, he thought, because Justin knew him. Soul-deep, and true.
Chapter 3
They planned bachelor parties early, mostly because neither of them wanted anything too dramatic and because Justin’s best friend and official Best Person Anna said the date was important for her plan. Justin, bemused, agreed; Kris shrugged and called Reggie, who was basically his only friend, and Reggie, utterly deadpan, said, “You mean I have to reschedule the sex van?”
“Funny,” Kris said. “I mean, a van? Not anything classier?”
“Like you?” Reg said. “Sir Medium-to-High-Class Projective Magical Talent?”
“You can’t see the fingers I’m holding up,” Kris said, “but you can feel them, can’t you, if I’m projecting.”
“I’m not doing that with you,” Reggie said, “we’re both married or about to be, and we haven’t shared a bed in decades. Come over the same day she picks him up. Don’t worry about anything.”
“I’m glad sharing my bed was so memorable for you,” Kris said. “Reg…”
“I know,” Reggie said. The years and the dazzling shows and the empathic manipulation—unconscious, honestly so, but undeniable—and the guilt and the forgiveness and the teenage stolen cigarettes and secondhand guitars stretched out between them, unspoken. “I know, yeah, consider it said. Tell me what time you’re getting in. Pack for rain.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m not telling you,” Reggie said cheerfully, and hung up on him. Kris mouthed wordless exasperation at the phone, and went off to see what he owned that might be waterproof.
* * * *
Justin’s bachelor party, Kris learned, would consist of four days, at least one drag queen fashion show, a secret pop-up rock concert at an undisclosed venue courtesy of one of Justin’s current favorite groups—The New Regency, who Kris also liked, both for their talent and because when they’d met the group backstage once before, songwriter and guitarist Adam Johnson had made Justin smile—and a decadent culinary round of New York City.
Kris learned this because Anna, who enjoyed schedules and rules and planning—one way she balanced out Justin—came by to hand him a printed itinerary, even though she’d emailed him one that morning. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a neat bun, not a strand out of place, and her outfit was immaculately fashionable. Kris felt extra-scruffy, the way he generally did around that gleaming polish; but she’d quit her job in solidarity after Justin’s firing and hadn’t blinked a long-lashed eye upon revelation of that demon half, so he liked her despite the lurking urge to grab a guitar and scream in random messy rebellion.
She said, “You can call and check in. He will anyway, and we’re not doing the ridiculous thing where you’re not allowed to speak to him for the entire party. You’d both hate it.”
“Um. Yeah?”
“Here’s where we’ll be, and when, and contact information for me and Mike and Adam and Brendan, you know Bren, from Incantation.”
Kris did indeed know Bren. Justin’s other ex—a good guy, and they were on good terms—had been instrumental, pun intended, in resurrecting Kris Starr’s career: invitations to join the wildly successful multiplatinum-status Incantation on tour, volunteered guest appearances on the next Kris Starr album, a side project for the new record label Justin’s friends had started, and in general an overflowing font of kindness. Bren, upon learning Justin’s secret, had said, “Wait, you mean I could’ve told people I was having sex with a demon? Not fair, man, you know what that would’ve done for my reputation?” and then promised to be there for whatever Justin needed, whatever support might be necessary.
Anna went on, “And here’s the hotel, and the driver, who we’ve got for all four days. You shouldn’t need all that, but in case you do. You’ll have a decent time zone difference, so remember that.”
“Um. Yeah? Wait. In California? That’s not that—”
“I’ve also sent a copy to your friend Reggie.”
“Oh gods.”
“You two have fun. We will. I’ll be back in the morning to collect him, like it says.”
“Okay…”
“You’re adorable,” she told him, and patted his shoulder. “Justin’s never been happier. I should know. I never liked David.”
“Good.”
“Exactly.”
She departed in a click of high but sensible heels and a tantalization of expensive perfume. The strap on the left heel did not quite cover her ankle tattoo; Kris smiled a little, and retreated inside. Justin would be in good hands.
* * * *
“Kris?”
“Hey, Reg.”
“What the fuck is this email? Who color-codes itineraries for a bachelor party? And can I hire her to take over our staffing and scheduling departments?”
“She’s Justin’s best friend,” Kris said. “And running our new record label. You know, the one you put money into.”
“Well, I’m not doing color-coded itineraries for you.”
“I sure as fuck hope not. Why rain? Why do I need good boots?”
“You’ll find out.”
* * * *
They dropped by the recording studio the morning before both parties. The song, the new one, came out rough but swinging, with Kris’s guitar and a finger-snap layer and a borrowed drummer from The New Regency and the bassist from Incantation. Bren and Justin recorded backup vocals, voices harmonizing and catchy as hell, and Kris scribbled “Being Human/Love All Your Pieces” on sticky tape as a title, and loved his world and his art, his music, his life.
* * * *
In California he got off a plane—one advantage to rock star money involved ease of travel—and found Reggie waiting at the airport, grinning. “Come on.”
“Another plane?”
“Surprise.”
“Where’re we going?”
“Surprise, I said. I’ve got this. I’m taking care of you.”
“That’s utterly terrifying,” Kris informed him, and got on the new plane, bag in hand.
The new plane was very nice, and private, and luxurious. It came with excellent scotch and chocolate-covered cherries. It also had Wi-Fi. Kris texted Justin. Did you know Reg was kidnapping me? To London?
Justin sent back a thumbs-up emoji, which Kris decided meant yes, followed by an off-center group selfie: everyone giggling and glittery, in a tangle of affection. Justin had on more dramatic eyeliner than usual and had a violet-dyed streak in fiery hair—it’d vanish the next time he let the more inhuman aspect out, of course—and Anna had acquired wire-and-crystal kitten ears, and the whole group shone with love.
Love you! Justin added. Have fun! Also I’m getting a surprise for you! Oh wait Anna says I’m not allowed to say that! But too late!
Love you, Kris typed back, feeling older by comparison. But not too old. Not when Justin loved him.
He looked up to find Reggie smiling at him, and complained, “What?”
�
�Nothing,” Reg said. “Nice to see you happy. Also I know what your surprise is. Terrifying Best Friend told me.”
“So can you just—”
“No.”
Kris muttered a word or two.
“Love you. Show me your ring designs again.”
“No.”
“Please?”
“Fine. Tell me whether you like them better in gold or white gold, and which you think he’d like…”
Reggie proved to be astonishingly helpful. Kris glanced out an airplane window, and wondered why London, and what they’d do.
What they did, apparently, began with the absolute poshest hotel, the sort they would’ve been summarily ejected from all those years ago. Kris looked at heavy crystal chandeliers and said, “Wait, weren’t we actually kicked out of—”
“I broke a TV,” Reggie said, “and Tommy was doing gods know what with gods know who in that bedroom, and you were having sex in the elevator. When it opened. In the lobby. That was part of the Starrstruck tour, you remember?”
“Not as such.”
“Not surprised. Come on, we’re being old and boring. It’s a nice suite.”
It was. And the management smiled at them, albeit with some wariness. Kris Starr and Reggie Rocket had a reputation, albeit one several decades in the past. These days Reggie had a lot of friends in the expensive wine market, and Kris was getting married.
Still a little scandalous. Marrying a demon and all.
He didn’t mind that part.
Reggie had pulled a few restaurateur strings, and every meal and every scotch tasting over the next few days was spectacular. In between, they made a few random stops: the shop that’d sold Kris his first leather trousers and high-heeled glam rock boots, now a high-end fashion boutique; the grungy run-down pub where Starrlight had played their first attempt at a show; a shop specializing in antique instruments. Kris, fingers stroking the neck of a glorious Stratos guitar that even looked like his old one, finally figured out what Reggie was doing, and said so.
“I didn’t know what you wanted,” Reggie said. “Figured you weren’t really up for the sex van. And I’d been wanting to visit, and, well…this is about us. Before you go and marry your baby sex demon former manager. I adore him, don’t get me wrong, but he was basically an infant when we were nicking your dad’s beer. When you picked up Johnny Rotter’s broken Flying X, that red one, and looked at it like you were thinking about something. We were here.”
“We were.” Kris trailed fingers along the Stratos again, remembering: desperation and hunger and petty theft and wild reckless glamorous escape into music. The beginnings of the scene. The burgeoning swell before the leap and the explosion. “You and me. Thanks.”
The shop owner hovered, obsequious but not interrupting two rock and roll myths as they reminisced.
“That one is yours,” Reggie said. “Took a while, but I found it.”
“How?” Kris touched a string. It quivered under his hand. “How’d you even do all this?”
“Mysterious ways.” Reg picked up a bass, did a bit of tuning. “How’d that opening to ‘Sugar’ go, again…”
“Like this,” Kris said, and joined in: laughing, falling into music, swept away.
He knew a couple of store employees were filming. The footage found its way online, to media outlets, to news stories: Unofficial Starrlight Reunion, said the headlines. Kris Starr and Reggie Rocket Surprise Shop Owner with Concert. Still Shining After All These Years.
Justin saw it too, and sent him a heart plus I know that guitar! Kris answered, Reg found it, and Justin answered with extra heart-eyes and tell him he’s awesome and I want to hear you in person sometime! Reggie laughed, said, “Sure,” and arranged for Kris’s guitar to be safely transported back to the hotel.
They found a certain old neighborhood, now distressingly gentrified; not much remained of the permanent grey grimness they both remembered. They regarded new high-rises with some skepticism, and wandered around storied streets for a while, thinking about change and time and age as sunshine glinted off polished glass and weather-beaten working pubs.
The world rained, on and off. Of course it did; fortunately Reggie had made him dress for English weather. Younger Kris would’ve probably stolen the coat, and would’ve liked Kris’s boots, which Justin had picked out.
On the last night they found the sticky sticker-covered hall where they’d played a first proper show, a first audience who’d come to see them, who’d jumped up and down and screamed and in one case thrown panties at the stage. It was closed for renovation; Reggie glanced around, saw no one, and kicked the back door in just the right spot to lift it up. They ignored signs, being fifteen years old again and heedless of warnings and restrictions, and wandered in.
History danced along walls, echoes, ghosts of underground concerts and ambitions on the brink. Kris touched a post, felt broken glass under boots, recalled singing at that spot where the microphone would’ve been, and the way the sound system had blown out halfway through but they hadn’t stopped, just kept going and shouted louder, and he’d been sweat-drenched and high on pure emotion, in love with the crowd the same way they loved him right back…
“It smells the same,” Reggie said, nudging something unidentifiable with a boot. “You remember opening for Jayne the Countess, when she was doing that firecracker trick and lit the whole stage on fire? That scorch mark’s still up there, look.”
Kris sat down on the stage, uncaring about stickiness, and gazed out at the shadows. At glimpses of motion, emotion, life and love and ripped jeans and spilled drinks and the waving of music like a battle flag, a claiming of space: we’re here, we’re alive, we’re making noise, come and listen.
Reggie came over to sit with him, and said, “Hey, if it hurts you know you’re living…” which was a line from an early and very melodramatic Starrlight single, which made Kris laugh. “Seriously, though. Weird. Chills. Like being right back there.”
“Wouldn’t be here without you.”
Reg put eyebrows up at him. “Not sure you ever said that to me back then.”
“I must’ve. Didn’t I?”
“Nah, you were too busy being Kris Starr, rock god. Don’t worry about it.”
“I love you, you know,” Kris said. “Not the same way I love Justin. But. Y’know. Thanks for putting up with me.”
“Who else would?” Reggie got up, held out a hand. Kris took it. “Come on, we’re having dinner at the Shelbourne.”
“Who’d you have to bribe to get a table?”
“Told them it was for you, Rock God.”
“You just want to see their expressions when we walk in. Dressed like this.” Which wasn’t terrible, but was definitely closer to the getting older but still undeniably rock stars spectrum than the polished-suit House of Lords brigade.
“How d’you think they feel about tattoos?” said Reggie Rocket, and grinned.
* * * *
Their flight home wasn’t until evening, the day after; Kris slipped out quietly while Reggie was arguing amiably with someone about the proper packing of classic guitars, and found a cab, and directed it to a specific location. The day was unusually clear, crisp and white and blue and gold; statues and museums and tourists stood out like artwork against London skies. He took a deep breath, braced with the past.
The cemetery was not in a busy location. It was older, and small, but green and growing; graffiti laced one battered stone gate, but the paths were neatly kept. Kris walked quietly along one, and counted stones, and found the small flat marker that’d been all they could afford.
He should’ve done better. He could have, if he’d planned. But Starrlight had only just launched when Sarah had grown so sick. He’d been young and flamboyant and caught up in it all, and hadn’t known what it’d mean to lose his mother.
He sat down cross-legged in grass, and played with a few blades of green.
A young woman over in another corner glanced at him, did a double-take, and
then very obviously chose to turn away and not bother him. He wasn’t sure whether or not she recognized Kris Starr, or just wanted to give a fellow human being some space.
He said, eventually, “So I’m getting married, y’know.” The wind ruffled some overgrown grass in reply.
“He’s amazing. You’d love him. He’s kind of young, I know, you’d say that too, but he’s also not, because the shit he’s been through—sorry, language, didn’t mean to. You wouldn’t care he’s a demon. You’d care that he’s all optimistic and smart—smarter than me—and kind and good at making pancakes and good at, fuck, everything, and he makes me feel like I can do anything, like I can be anything, like I can be a good person. The person he sees.” He swallowed. Hard. “The person you thought you saw.”
The wind murmured again, soothing.
“I love him,” Kris said. “He loves me. And we’re happy. And thanks. For…for letting me see what that could mean, someone loving me, someone believing in me. So I could see it again. You really would love him. And he’d love you. And I’m thinking about you. I just…I just wanted to say. To tell you. Thanks.”
When he got up he found Reggie leaning on the cemetery gate. Reg, of course, knew where Sarah Thompson was buried; he’d been at the funeral.
“So,” Reg said. “You good?”
“Yeah,” Kris said, swiping one hand over his cheek. “Yeah.”
* * * *
On the flight home he took out his phone, thoughtfully, and flicked through until he found his father’s number, at least the latest he had.
He didn’t call, not then.
But he let his finger hover over the button.
* * * *
“Hi,” Justin said between kisses, having wrapped himself around Kris in the penthouse’s entryway. “Missed you.”
“Missed you too, love, you know that—you taste like peaches—”
“New flavored lip balm. Party favor. Take me off to bed and show me how much you missed me, please.”
“Fuck yes—”
In the bedroom, in their familiar bed, Kris got his demon naked: revealing long legs, slim waist, and a suddenly concerning bandage across Justin’s chest, along his collarbone, near his heart. “Is everything—”
