Page 114 of The Comedown

It’s sexy. So fucking sexy.

I take the mic from his hold to step back. “Do you remember the song from last night?”

He gives me a flat look, like I should know better, then shakes it off, asking, “You’re okay singing that? Here? Now?”

“It’s just a song.”

“Weren’t you the one that warned me about this?”

“About what?”

His stare lifts to my crown before returning to mine.

“About putting up with fake shit for so long you forget what real is.”

I spin around as fast as humanly possible to face an absolutely riveted audience, then swallow thickly, the crown on my head sitting a little lower than it was a moment ago.

“Since tonight’s all about showing and embracing our true selves,” I say into the mic, “I’d like all of you to know just how talented Julez really is.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Slade freaking out. He’s got a phone up to his ear, and I can imagine who’s on the other end. But this is our playing field. This is the one place performers get to be whoever we want to be and do whatever we want to do. The trick is to not ask for permission ahead of time. If need be, you can apologize after, but during…this is our time. As much as labels wish they had full control over this portion, the truth is they don’t. After all, artists are individuals. Individuals with dreams, and desires, and emotions, and we act accordingly. If they want robots, they should hire fucking robots because humans are complex and that complexity can’t be contained every minute of every day.

Julian’s played his guitar on stage once before, but that was singing covers of other artists’ songs. We still pay for that. Now he’s about to go completely off-script with original material nobody has any rights to yet, meaning his record label isn’t going to get a dime and neither is anybody else. This is truly ours.

“Now, some people might not realize how hot playing the piano is, but…” I wave a hand at Julian seated at the piano, triggering an explosion of applause. “Julez makes it look pretty damn good, right?”

Without watching his reaction, I round the piano and lift myself up onto the opposite side. We can perform the song we came up with on the spot, but we aren’t reenacting any other part of last night.

“Here’s a song Julez and I wrote together but haven’t played anywhere else before.”

Smooth as worn leather, Julian taps the same keys as he did last night, pulling me right back to the intimate moment we shared with a surge to my bloodstream.

We sing the lyrics with only a few minor changes. A word here is switched out for another more fitting term; a note there is prolonged to fit the tune better.

Everybody likes to say ignorance is bliss, but they obviously never sang on top of a piano as Julian stroked the keys because this…this is bliss. And I know why. Because like Julian implied, it’s not just a song. It’s real.

Soon my eyes close, and I lose myself to the song, the feeling, the acceptance blanketing my shoulders as if it’s an actual, tangible thing. Lying back, I arch off the piano’s surface, pouring my emotions—my true emotions—into my solo, and for a brief second, everything in this world feels right. Feels good. With so much bad, awful, evil out here, this kind of snippet of authenticity doesn’t come around too often. Smiles are faked, laughs are unnatural, pictures are stolen and manipulated until unrecognizable. We are stolen and manipulated until unrecognizable.

Right now, all of that floats away, leaving my chest and stomach and conscience loose and free.

Suddenly, the instrument beneath me goes quiet, and when I open my eyes, I find Julian standing between my legs still hanging off the side. He doesn’t have a mic, so hand on my crown, I move to sit back up, putting mine between us.

Last night we didn’t do this part acapella but it makes sense why Julian thought to. The final verse is the blending of two identical secrets full of yearning. Yearning so strong, you’ll do anything, sacrifice anything, to fulfill it, even yourself. But Julian and I sing it to each other in a way that says that kind of sacrifice isn’t warranted. It’s not necessary because that yearning is wholly reciprocated. We’re convincing ourselves as much as the other person as we sing into my mic, and I bring my hand up to Julian’s face, caressing the skin along his jawline, dipping below to the tattoo he put there just for me.

Our eyes hold like there’s nothing else in this world worth looking at, and I guess there isn’t. Not right now. Not when everything else falls away, leaving just the two of us. Two shut-off artists yearning for a genuine connection to someone who understands, someone who cares.

Just as the last word leaves our mouths, he dives forward, and I see his intention before he crushes his lips to mine.

The crowd ignites into an inferno as does my body at the feel of Julian’s demanding lips again, this time much different than last night’s kiss. My brain screams to put a stop to this, but my body…my body opens for him, letting his tongue sweep inside to twist with mine. Our tongues, our mouths, our bodies, our hearts, fight for that same connection, the one our eyes always find so easily, and the pieces fall into place just as quickly, reinforcing the fact that we’re both in the same position. I want Julian just as much as Julian wants me. Maybe more, because while Julian’s been forthcoming with his desire, I’ve been trying to stifle mine.

His groan over the pandemonium finally yanks me back to reality—hard.

We’re still onstage. Kissing.

No, not kissing. Making out.

Christ’s sake.

Getting ahold of myself, I break my mouth away from Julian’s, giving him a hard look and guiding his body away from mine in one smooth motion so I can hop down, giving the frenzied crowd a wave and a smile stretched so wide my ears hurt.