2020-04-18 20:21![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
threedimensions
threedimensionsDimensions: [1-2]
Timeline: January 2017
Title: Show & Tell
Summary: The day the world begins to drop out from under Mark begins with a knock
~3.2k
Mark was sleeping late when the knock came. At first he was sure it was part of his dream, as was the unfamiliar room he saw as he lifted his head and squinted around. He turned his head the other way and saw the alarm clock, which was glued somehow to the nightstand (which also sported a glued-down lamp and chain-attached local phone/ takeout menu listing), reading ten after eleven. Well, that certainly qualified as sleeping in, and he'd needed it—the band thing had exploded since spring of last year, when their third album had been released.
Since then, they did Warped for the third time, they did a short run with just their crew and another two small bands, and now they were in the middle of their first world tour (co-headlining with Fun Size) that was months long, and by Jesus it was fun but he was tired. Keith hid in his bunk or hotel room or the green rooms as much as he could, Andrew would claw off your entire face if you bothered him on an off day, and—of course—Brandon was still perfectly willing to bust his balls day in and day out for each and every gig. Mark put forth as much effort as he could muster, of course, but there were only so many six o'clock in the mornings he wanted to see each week. Zero was preferable, actually, but any week that had at least one sleep in morning was golden.
The knocking came again, and Mark pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, dragging himself out from between the warm tucked-in-at-the-end blankets. Probably Ashley, bearing a message from Peter regarding a last-minute interview or photo shoot or whatever else penciled in at the last second for the band, and on their first day off in two weeks, sure. He looked though the peephole and saw not Brandon's assistant, but a kid in a light brown uniform with a bulky messenger bag hanging along her hips.
Mark opened the door, a curious smile on his face. His first thought had been a fan, but this girl seemed to have a different urgency about her than he one he'd been picking up more and more easily around giddy teenagers who recognized them.
"Mark Allgeyer?" she asked, the moment the door had cleared his face.
"Yeah?"
She flipped open the messenger bag, pulled out a manila envelope, and held it towards him. "Courier. Will you sign, please?" She indicated a handheld electronic device.
"Sure." He took the electronic pen and quickly signed his name, something he was getting good at scrawling in 2.4 seconds. She thanked him and turned on her heel to go, and as he watched her progress toward the elevator, he thought she was more urgent now than before. He got a mental image of a grilled cheese sandwich and thought that sounded pretty good—it was about lunchtime.
He took the envelope over to the desk in the room and tossed it down, raising one hand to cover a huge yawn. Sleeping in or not, he could still have gladly fallen back into the bed, only now he was hungry. Definitely lunchtime, he thought, running through the shower quickly and dreaming about grilled cheese with bacon. He skipped the shave—today off ought to mean off—and came out of the bathroom, still toweling his hair, and sat on the edge of the bed to reach down for his duffel bag. Dressing himself, and not being badgered to wear sponsorgear, was also another rediscovered perk of the fabled Day Off, and he pushed past two new Epiphone and Monster Energy Drink shirts their tour manager had given him to stuff into his bag before heading into the hotel last night, to grab one of his old, faded Senses Fail shirts. He pulled on some jeans and nudged the chair out from the desk to put his foot on to tie his shoe, then glanced at what was on the desktop and forgot about his footwear. He picked up the envelope and looked in disbelief at the return address.
Katelan Havershok
3607 Bay Street
Chicago, IL 66823
...Katelan? His ex-girlfriend from forever ago?
He got a flash of memory then—her face, watching avidly and looking down at him as he sat on the floor against her bedroom wall.
The girlfriend that had—oh.
What? What in the hell did Katelan want? What could she have to say to him after five years, why would she have sent him something, directly to his hotel room?
He was uneasy. He didn't really want to open it and see what it was, but it wasn't like he couldn't. He sat down on the edge of the bed again and glanced at the posted address, feeling less good about this by the second. She had even gotten the Draces Management bit, and had apparently sent a courier to hand-deliver whatever this was to him, so not only it was time-sensitive and important, she apparently knew how to get in contact with him, or how to find out. He turned the envelope over, frowning. They hadn't spoken or seen each other in five years. And the band had gotten at least a little bit popular in the last couple of years—he didn't think it was impossible that she'd heard of them, and their band name (or lack thereof) hadn't changed. She was choosing now to get in touch with him about something, and he didn't like it.
He tried to feel the envelope, but didn't get much. Shook it a bit, then thinking could have been small things like cards or pictures. Pictures of what that would be worth sending to him?
What did people take pictures of? He got a mental image of a baby, of little kids.
...paternity? Great.
He still didn't want to know, but that didn't change the fact that he probably had to know, and sitting around holding it and guessing was a waste of time. He tore off the seal so he could undo the clasp, reached in, and pulled out a small sheet of stationary and what seemed to be half a dozen photographs. He reached for them and had barely half a thought (hope I don't have to raise a kid with her) before he turned them over and the world fell out from under him.
Two minutes later, Mark was standing at the door of the room next to his, the re-taped manila envelope clutched in one hand while he knocked quickly with the other. Brandon would surely be awake now, though there was probably only a slim chance he'd still be in the hotel. If there was no answer, Mark would just call him and ask him to come back right fucking now, but he really thought he ought to—
The door swung open, and Brandon barely looked to see who it was before stepping back and holding the door so it wouldn't close and latch. Mark came in and immediately looked for Jack, but didn't see him. Brandon closed the door and said something to someone on his phone, then hit the button on the side to lock it. He put it in his pocket and and looked at Mark, starting to grin, but then he saw Mark's face and stopped, puzzled.
"What?" he asked.
Mark couldn't answer for a moment; instead he turned and headed toward the king-sized bed in the room. He pulled open the clasp from the envelope again and upended it, shaking it a little to make sure everything fell out. He tried to look at Brandon and couldn't do it, his eyes not wanting to leave the floor, so he watched his shoes come toward the bed and then stop. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a hand reach out and snatch one of the photos.
"What...what in the fuck—?"
Mark didn't need to look up to know what Brandon's face would look like. He sounded stricken and horrified, and Mark could feel his mind racing, though all he felt himself was confused (How did she do it?) and, for some reason, sad. He leaned down and picked up the sheet of light purple paper that had come with the photo set and handed it over, finally managing to look up to gauge Brandon's reaction to that.
Brandon's eyes flashed back and forth, widening, and then his mouth fell open. "She's fucking kidding," he said.
"I don't get that feeling," Mark said, numb.
"I..." Brandon stopped, agitated. "Twenty million dollars? She's fucking kidding. We haven't even grossed that much yet! Not even close!"
"I know."
"How in Jesus fuck did she even get these?!"
"I don't fucking know." Mark paused. "It wasn't like I spent a whole lot of time watching her."
"She's going to put them on the fucking internet?"
"That's what it says."
"What the hell are we going to do?" Brandon asked. He looked at the note in one hand, the photo of Mark on his knees in front of him while he sat on the edge of a girl's bed, in the other hand, then back to Mark.
"Dunno."
Brandon was again staring at the picture he'd immediately grabbed, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He looked down at the others, then slowly back up again. Mark didn't seem to be able to keep his eye and he turned his face away. Luckily for him, he now happened upon the tiny refrigerator and food cabinet of vastly overpriced wares that came with the room. He headed toward the mini-fridge without looking back and swung open the door to study the tiny bottles of alcohol provided. Gin, vodka, rum...oh yes, and JD. Mark selected a glass that was upside down on a tray above the fridge, twisted hard on the Jack Daniels' cap, and emptied the bottle into it. He downed it in two gulps, then took half a dozen more gulps of air to make up for it.
He chanced another look back after draining his glass, but Brandon was now sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at each of the rest of the photos. Mark didn't know why he was bothering. It was pretty goddamn obvious it was them in the pictures, and those weren't even the 'worst/best' of the set, according to the note. Mark reached into the fridge again, coming out with the Smirnoff bottle. He emptied that into his glass, gulped it back, then grimaced and coughed.
"Jesus, how do you drink this shit?" he asked.
Brandon glanced over absently, then returned to the pictures. "It's in my blood, I guess," he said, then seemed to shake himself. "You don't even like vodka. Now I have to order another bottle."
Mark held up his glass, and tilted it toward the phone. "Go for it."
Brandon seemed to consider, then reached for the phone and dialed 0. He gave his name and room number to room service, and asked that a fifth of Smirnoff be sent up. He glanced at Mark, then amended the order to include another bottle of Jack Daniels as well, and hung up. "You're going to have to talk to her," he said.
Mark thought sitting down would be a pretty good idea right now. He landed in the armchair next to the window, looking anywhere but at those pictures. Brandon had put them in a line. Brandon had—Mark tried not to notice that Brandon had apparently put the photos of them in various sexual positions into chronological order, but it was hard to miss, especially when he seemed to reconsider and switched two around. Yeah, that had been right. Mark looked around the room again, wondering how long it was going to take for someone to trot up two bottles of booze, and realized something was missing. "Where's Jack?" he asked.
Brandon shrugged. "Out somewhere, he left before breakfast. I think there was an exhibit he wanted to see."
"Know when he'll be back?"
"No. Oh." Brandon stood to answer the knock at the door, and Mark gazed out the window while he accepted the order from the uniformed guy, signed something, and dug in his pocket for five bucks. He put both bottles into the fridge to chill, and sat down in the other chair while Mark looked out at the city and tried to figure out why anything resembling normalcy went on about its business out there while is life had been flipped upside down. "You have to call her," Brandon repeated, after a moment.
"What am I supposed to say to her?"
"I don't know. Whatever she wants to hear that isn't, 'Your check is in the mail'."
Mark shook his head. "She's pretty clearly really pissed at me. I don't know why the hell it's taken this long, but I get the feeling she isn't going to want to hear 'hey, don't, actually?' from me."
"You think she wants to hear, 'what the fuck are you doing, knock it off you stupid fucking cow' from me?"
"Uh. No."
"Which is why you've got to call her," Brandon said. "You have to—I, for one, don't have that kind of dough falling out of my ass."
"What makes you think she'll even talk to me?"
"She sent them right to you. You might at least be able to just...apologize for whatever she thinks you did wrong, and talk her into calling it off. Even if we wanted to, which I'm not entirely sure I do anyway, we can't pull up that kind of cash."
"You don't know if you want her to post those or not?" Mark squinted. That wasn't what Brandon was saying, he knew, but he was fucked if he knew what he was talking about. He was probably fucked anyway. His head hurt.
Brandon gestured to the note and the pictures. "She takes these behind our backs—okay, a lot of them are dead on center, but you know what I mean—she waits five years, until our band is starting to be worth something, and then tries to blackmail us to not post them? Who's to say she won't release them anyway, even if we did get her the money?" He glared at the letter, lifting a lip in contempt. "I never liked that sneaky bitch."
Mark grinned; he couldn't help it. "She never really liked you, either."
Brandon snorted and tossed Katelan's note on top of the pictures. "And isn't happy with the way it ended with you either, apparently."
Mark shrugged, then sighed. "I know. I guess...you're right. I'll have to try."
Brandon looked at him, met his eyes and held them, then nodded. Mark got up from the chair and opened the fridge again, took out the whiskey, then glanced back at Brandon to see if he wanted his vodka. Brandon saw him look and shook his head, starting to chew the insides of his cheeks. Mark returned to the chair and twisted off the lid of the bottle, raising the neck to his mouth to sip again. If ever there had been a time to say 'fuck the glass', he was fine with it being now. Brandon had glanced at the ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING sign on the wall next to the flat-screen television, then seemed to mutter at it in Russian. Mark didn't know Russian...he could say 'vodka', though he wasn't sure he wanted to again, at least for today.
There was a small beep from the hall and the room door opened. Jack entered, keycard in hand, and seemed to pause a moment in noticing Mark before closing the door. Brandon jumped up and stood anxiously in front of the bed, though it was obviously too late to sweep up the scattered contents before his boyfriend noticed them or noticed that he was trying to hide something. Jack turned from the door and faced them again, though his dark sunglasses prevented either of them from seeing his eyes. Mark thought he was sure Jack was considering the way Brandon was standing, and of course Mark himself, slumped in an armchair and sipping whiskey directly from the bottle before lunchtime. Jack walked slowly forward, then stopped with his head tilted towards the bed, and Brandon licked his lips.
Brandon and Mark both watched Jack stare down at the photos. Nobody moved for a long moment; Mark realized he was holding his breath because Brandon was. Finally, Jack slowly reached forward and edged his fingertips underneath the first photo in line, tilting it, and each of the others in succession, face down. Mark decided that was probably a pretty good move, sipped again, then looked up in mild surprise as Brandon began saying something quickly in German. Jack listened for a long time, his head still turned toward the items on the mattress, then he turned away when Brandon finally slowed, haltingly picking words in his third or fourth language. Mark opted to remain silent, trying to be very quiet and see if he could feel out for what Jack was feeling, but, as usual, he couldn't find anything, if it was there. Jack went towards the chair Brandon had just vacated, sat down, and pulled a book off the top of the dresser and onto his lap. He opened it and seemed to focus his attention on the page, and Mark decided that was his cue to exit.
He stood, feeling everything rushing at his head at once, and a headache already starting to splinter in the right side of his brain, behind his eye. "I think I'm...I'm gonna go lie down before lunch."
"You gonna call her?" Brandon asked.
"Yeah, I guess. Later." Mark indicated his head, knowing Brandon would remember his terrible headaches. He had hoped they were gone, but if anything had ever warranted a Big Fucking Headache...it was always just fucking ducky to hear from exes, wasn't it?
"Stop drinking," Brandon said vaguely. "You'll make yourself sick."
Mark held up the whiskey bottle. "So I can take this with, right?"
"Yeah." Brandon looked at the pictures again and exhaled loudly in disgust. "What do you want me to do with this shit?"
"I don't fuckin' care." Mark headed for the door, almost reached for the handle, then stopped and turned back. Brandon glanced his way, and Mark gave him a look that was confused, almost pleading. Brandon gave him a slightly exasperated look back, and Mark nodded before opening the door and slipping through it.
He went back to his room thinking he really would lie down for a while, even before eating anything. He didn't really feel that hungry anymore. Mark felt...well, he didn't know what he felt, only that his head and stomach both hurt, and that he felt both heavy and sleepy.
Are you pissed at me?
Is it my fault?
Is this the end?
Is this going to fuck up everything?
Are you sorry we did it?
Get real.
He would. Right after this nap.
Timeline: January 2017
Title: Show & Tell
Summary: The day the world begins to drop out from under Mark begins with a knock
~3.2k
Mark was sleeping late when the knock came. At first he was sure it was part of his dream, as was the unfamiliar room he saw as he lifted his head and squinted around. He turned his head the other way and saw the alarm clock, which was glued somehow to the nightstand (which also sported a glued-down lamp and chain-attached local phone/ takeout menu listing), reading ten after eleven. Well, that certainly qualified as sleeping in, and he'd needed it—the band thing had exploded since spring of last year, when their third album had been released.
Since then, they did Warped for the third time, they did a short run with just their crew and another two small bands, and now they were in the middle of their first world tour (co-headlining with Fun Size) that was months long, and by Jesus it was fun but he was tired. Keith hid in his bunk or hotel room or the green rooms as much as he could, Andrew would claw off your entire face if you bothered him on an off day, and—of course—Brandon was still perfectly willing to bust his balls day in and day out for each and every gig. Mark put forth as much effort as he could muster, of course, but there were only so many six o'clock in the mornings he wanted to see each week. Zero was preferable, actually, but any week that had at least one sleep in morning was golden.
The knocking came again, and Mark pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, dragging himself out from between the warm tucked-in-at-the-end blankets. Probably Ashley, bearing a message from Peter regarding a last-minute interview or photo shoot or whatever else penciled in at the last second for the band, and on their first day off in two weeks, sure. He looked though the peephole and saw not Brandon's assistant, but a kid in a light brown uniform with a bulky messenger bag hanging along her hips.
Mark opened the door, a curious smile on his face. His first thought had been a fan, but this girl seemed to have a different urgency about her than he one he'd been picking up more and more easily around giddy teenagers who recognized them.
"Mark Allgeyer?" she asked, the moment the door had cleared his face.
"Yeah?"
She flipped open the messenger bag, pulled out a manila envelope, and held it towards him. "Courier. Will you sign, please?" She indicated a handheld electronic device.
"Sure." He took the electronic pen and quickly signed his name, something he was getting good at scrawling in 2.4 seconds. She thanked him and turned on her heel to go, and as he watched her progress toward the elevator, he thought she was more urgent now than before. He got a mental image of a grilled cheese sandwich and thought that sounded pretty good—it was about lunchtime.
He took the envelope over to the desk in the room and tossed it down, raising one hand to cover a huge yawn. Sleeping in or not, he could still have gladly fallen back into the bed, only now he was hungry. Definitely lunchtime, he thought, running through the shower quickly and dreaming about grilled cheese with bacon. He skipped the shave—today off ought to mean off—and came out of the bathroom, still toweling his hair, and sat on the edge of the bed to reach down for his duffel bag. Dressing himself, and not being badgered to wear sponsorgear, was also another rediscovered perk of the fabled Day Off, and he pushed past two new Epiphone and Monster Energy Drink shirts their tour manager had given him to stuff into his bag before heading into the hotel last night, to grab one of his old, faded Senses Fail shirts. He pulled on some jeans and nudged the chair out from the desk to put his foot on to tie his shoe, then glanced at what was on the desktop and forgot about his footwear. He picked up the envelope and looked in disbelief at the return address.
Katelan Havershok
3607 Bay Street
Chicago, IL 66823
...Katelan? His ex-girlfriend from forever ago?
He got a flash of memory then—her face, watching avidly and looking down at him as he sat on the floor against her bedroom wall.
The girlfriend that had—oh.
What? What in the hell did Katelan want? What could she have to say to him after five years, why would she have sent him something, directly to his hotel room?
He was uneasy. He didn't really want to open it and see what it was, but it wasn't like he couldn't. He sat down on the edge of the bed again and glanced at the posted address, feeling less good about this by the second. She had even gotten the Draces Management bit, and had apparently sent a courier to hand-deliver whatever this was to him, so not only it was time-sensitive and important, she apparently knew how to get in contact with him, or how to find out. He turned the envelope over, frowning. They hadn't spoken or seen each other in five years. And the band had gotten at least a little bit popular in the last couple of years—he didn't think it was impossible that she'd heard of them, and their band name (or lack thereof) hadn't changed. She was choosing now to get in touch with him about something, and he didn't like it.
He tried to feel the envelope, but didn't get much. Shook it a bit, then thinking could have been small things like cards or pictures. Pictures of what that would be worth sending to him?
What did people take pictures of? He got a mental image of a baby, of little kids.
...paternity? Great.
He still didn't want to know, but that didn't change the fact that he probably had to know, and sitting around holding it and guessing was a waste of time. He tore off the seal so he could undo the clasp, reached in, and pulled out a small sheet of stationary and what seemed to be half a dozen photographs. He reached for them and had barely half a thought (hope I don't have to raise a kid with her) before he turned them over and the world fell out from under him.
Two minutes later, Mark was standing at the door of the room next to his, the re-taped manila envelope clutched in one hand while he knocked quickly with the other. Brandon would surely be awake now, though there was probably only a slim chance he'd still be in the hotel. If there was no answer, Mark would just call him and ask him to come back right fucking now, but he really thought he ought to—
The door swung open, and Brandon barely looked to see who it was before stepping back and holding the door so it wouldn't close and latch. Mark came in and immediately looked for Jack, but didn't see him. Brandon closed the door and said something to someone on his phone, then hit the button on the side to lock it. He put it in his pocket and and looked at Mark, starting to grin, but then he saw Mark's face and stopped, puzzled.
"What?" he asked.
Mark couldn't answer for a moment; instead he turned and headed toward the king-sized bed in the room. He pulled open the clasp from the envelope again and upended it, shaking it a little to make sure everything fell out. He tried to look at Brandon and couldn't do it, his eyes not wanting to leave the floor, so he watched his shoes come toward the bed and then stop. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a hand reach out and snatch one of the photos.
"What...what in the fuck—?"
Mark didn't need to look up to know what Brandon's face would look like. He sounded stricken and horrified, and Mark could feel his mind racing, though all he felt himself was confused (How did she do it?) and, for some reason, sad. He leaned down and picked up the sheet of light purple paper that had come with the photo set and handed it over, finally managing to look up to gauge Brandon's reaction to that.
Brandon's eyes flashed back and forth, widening, and then his mouth fell open. "She's fucking kidding," he said.
"I don't get that feeling," Mark said, numb.
"I..." Brandon stopped, agitated. "Twenty million dollars? She's fucking kidding. We haven't even grossed that much yet! Not even close!"
"I know."
"How in Jesus fuck did she even get these?!"
"I don't fucking know." Mark paused. "It wasn't like I spent a whole lot of time watching her."
"She's going to put them on the fucking internet?"
"That's what it says."
"What the hell are we going to do?" Brandon asked. He looked at the note in one hand, the photo of Mark on his knees in front of him while he sat on the edge of a girl's bed, in the other hand, then back to Mark.
"Dunno."
Brandon was again staring at the picture he'd immediately grabbed, eyes wide and mouth slightly open. He looked down at the others, then slowly back up again. Mark didn't seem to be able to keep his eye and he turned his face away. Luckily for him, he now happened upon the tiny refrigerator and food cabinet of vastly overpriced wares that came with the room. He headed toward the mini-fridge without looking back and swung open the door to study the tiny bottles of alcohol provided. Gin, vodka, rum...oh yes, and JD. Mark selected a glass that was upside down on a tray above the fridge, twisted hard on the Jack Daniels' cap, and emptied the bottle into it. He downed it in two gulps, then took half a dozen more gulps of air to make up for it.
He chanced another look back after draining his glass, but Brandon was now sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at each of the rest of the photos. Mark didn't know why he was bothering. It was pretty goddamn obvious it was them in the pictures, and those weren't even the 'worst/best' of the set, according to the note. Mark reached into the fridge again, coming out with the Smirnoff bottle. He emptied that into his glass, gulped it back, then grimaced and coughed.
"Jesus, how do you drink this shit?" he asked.
Brandon glanced over absently, then returned to the pictures. "It's in my blood, I guess," he said, then seemed to shake himself. "You don't even like vodka. Now I have to order another bottle."
Mark held up his glass, and tilted it toward the phone. "Go for it."
Brandon seemed to consider, then reached for the phone and dialed 0. He gave his name and room number to room service, and asked that a fifth of Smirnoff be sent up. He glanced at Mark, then amended the order to include another bottle of Jack Daniels as well, and hung up. "You're going to have to talk to her," he said.
Mark thought sitting down would be a pretty good idea right now. He landed in the armchair next to the window, looking anywhere but at those pictures. Brandon had put them in a line. Brandon had—Mark tried not to notice that Brandon had apparently put the photos of them in various sexual positions into chronological order, but it was hard to miss, especially when he seemed to reconsider and switched two around. Yeah, that had been right. Mark looked around the room again, wondering how long it was going to take for someone to trot up two bottles of booze, and realized something was missing. "Where's Jack?" he asked.
Brandon shrugged. "Out somewhere, he left before breakfast. I think there was an exhibit he wanted to see."
"Know when he'll be back?"
"No. Oh." Brandon stood to answer the knock at the door, and Mark gazed out the window while he accepted the order from the uniformed guy, signed something, and dug in his pocket for five bucks. He put both bottles into the fridge to chill, and sat down in the other chair while Mark looked out at the city and tried to figure out why anything resembling normalcy went on about its business out there while is life had been flipped upside down. "You have to call her," Brandon repeated, after a moment.
"What am I supposed to say to her?"
"I don't know. Whatever she wants to hear that isn't, 'Your check is in the mail'."
Mark shook his head. "She's pretty clearly really pissed at me. I don't know why the hell it's taken this long, but I get the feeling she isn't going to want to hear 'hey, don't, actually?' from me."
"You think she wants to hear, 'what the fuck are you doing, knock it off you stupid fucking cow' from me?"
"Uh. No."
"Which is why you've got to call her," Brandon said. "You have to—I, for one, don't have that kind of dough falling out of my ass."
"What makes you think she'll even talk to me?"
"She sent them right to you. You might at least be able to just...apologize for whatever she thinks you did wrong, and talk her into calling it off. Even if we wanted to, which I'm not entirely sure I do anyway, we can't pull up that kind of cash."
"You don't know if you want her to post those or not?" Mark squinted. That wasn't what Brandon was saying, he knew, but he was fucked if he knew what he was talking about. He was probably fucked anyway. His head hurt.
Brandon gestured to the note and the pictures. "She takes these behind our backs—okay, a lot of them are dead on center, but you know what I mean—she waits five years, until our band is starting to be worth something, and then tries to blackmail us to not post them? Who's to say she won't release them anyway, even if we did get her the money?" He glared at the letter, lifting a lip in contempt. "I never liked that sneaky bitch."
Mark grinned; he couldn't help it. "She never really liked you, either."
Brandon snorted and tossed Katelan's note on top of the pictures. "And isn't happy with the way it ended with you either, apparently."
Mark shrugged, then sighed. "I know. I guess...you're right. I'll have to try."
Brandon looked at him, met his eyes and held them, then nodded. Mark got up from the chair and opened the fridge again, took out the whiskey, then glanced back at Brandon to see if he wanted his vodka. Brandon saw him look and shook his head, starting to chew the insides of his cheeks. Mark returned to the chair and twisted off the lid of the bottle, raising the neck to his mouth to sip again. If ever there had been a time to say 'fuck the glass', he was fine with it being now. Brandon had glanced at the ABSOLUTELY NO SMOKING sign on the wall next to the flat-screen television, then seemed to mutter at it in Russian. Mark didn't know Russian...he could say 'vodka', though he wasn't sure he wanted to again, at least for today.
There was a small beep from the hall and the room door opened. Jack entered, keycard in hand, and seemed to pause a moment in noticing Mark before closing the door. Brandon jumped up and stood anxiously in front of the bed, though it was obviously too late to sweep up the scattered contents before his boyfriend noticed them or noticed that he was trying to hide something. Jack turned from the door and faced them again, though his dark sunglasses prevented either of them from seeing his eyes. Mark thought he was sure Jack was considering the way Brandon was standing, and of course Mark himself, slumped in an armchair and sipping whiskey directly from the bottle before lunchtime. Jack walked slowly forward, then stopped with his head tilted towards the bed, and Brandon licked his lips.
Brandon and Mark both watched Jack stare down at the photos. Nobody moved for a long moment; Mark realized he was holding his breath because Brandon was. Finally, Jack slowly reached forward and edged his fingertips underneath the first photo in line, tilting it, and each of the others in succession, face down. Mark decided that was probably a pretty good move, sipped again, then looked up in mild surprise as Brandon began saying something quickly in German. Jack listened for a long time, his head still turned toward the items on the mattress, then he turned away when Brandon finally slowed, haltingly picking words in his third or fourth language. Mark opted to remain silent, trying to be very quiet and see if he could feel out for what Jack was feeling, but, as usual, he couldn't find anything, if it was there. Jack went towards the chair Brandon had just vacated, sat down, and pulled a book off the top of the dresser and onto his lap. He opened it and seemed to focus his attention on the page, and Mark decided that was his cue to exit.
He stood, feeling everything rushing at his head at once, and a headache already starting to splinter in the right side of his brain, behind his eye. "I think I'm...I'm gonna go lie down before lunch."
"You gonna call her?" Brandon asked.
"Yeah, I guess. Later." Mark indicated his head, knowing Brandon would remember his terrible headaches. He had hoped they were gone, but if anything had ever warranted a Big Fucking Headache...it was always just fucking ducky to hear from exes, wasn't it?
"Stop drinking," Brandon said vaguely. "You'll make yourself sick."
Mark held up the whiskey bottle. "So I can take this with, right?"
"Yeah." Brandon looked at the pictures again and exhaled loudly in disgust. "What do you want me to do with this shit?"
"I don't fuckin' care." Mark headed for the door, almost reached for the handle, then stopped and turned back. Brandon glanced his way, and Mark gave him a look that was confused, almost pleading. Brandon gave him a slightly exasperated look back, and Mark nodded before opening the door and slipping through it.
He went back to his room thinking he really would lie down for a while, even before eating anything. He didn't really feel that hungry anymore. Mark felt...well, he didn't know what he felt, only that his head and stomach both hurt, and that he felt both heavy and sleepy.
Are you pissed at me?
Is it my fault?
Is this the end?
Is this going to fuck up everything?
Are you sorry we did it?
Get real.
He would. Right after this nap.