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threedimensionsTimeline: Early May 2017
Title: Backfire
Summary: John Allgeyer doesn't like that his son is still so low, and sets up a half-band performance at his bar with just Mark and Brandon. Mark makes a decision.
~2.5k
After their third near-silent dinner together, their son goes home without looking either of them in the face even once, and they don't know what to do. Mark barely talks at all, let alone about—about that. Not that either of them want to discuss it, to pry, even to know. They wouldn't have wanted to know—can't help knowing—and now—
Colette maintains quietly that they should have known, and John doesn't know how that could be, because his boy has never—Mark likes girls—but—but okay, he has once or twice half-wondered, a thought not quite actualized, when he'd seen them together over the years, starting when they were teenagers. It's nothing, they're good friends, it's good for a young man to have close guy friends. He's always told himself that, at least until this nasty pictures business has come up, and it turns out he was wrong. He actually has tried to talk to Mark about it (at least offered to) shortly after he came home, and Mark flat-out said no. John doesn't blame him at all, but that was weeks and weeks ago. He's been back in Chicago for over a month, has been out of the public eye and left in peace, and still.
"He's still not okay," John says to his wife.
She sighs, the scissors in her hand stilling, the coupons forgotten. "They were so close," she tells the Cascade dishwasher pods softly. "He just misses his friend. They don't talk anymore at all. I think...I wonder if Brandon is avoiding him on purpose. He's already with someone and has been for a while. I think—I'm pretty sure Mark's mentioned him living with someone, and I read something about his partner making computer games."
John doesn't say anything to that, part of him still shocked out of his mind that his son would ever have wanted—that he has done—that. He does not give a rat's ass what most people want to do and with whom. But Mark... his only son... who has never given any indication... well. It doesn't matter how surprised they are. Another part of him just feels bad for his son, not only for the blackmail and the way his—his private business—was all over for anyone to see, but that one interview... He hadn't wanted to read it, but when one of his bartenders had said that he'd confirmed himself how he felt about the other one...shit. It's shitty to have feelings—any kind of feelings—for someone that doesn't have them back. It's shitty to be cut out of someone's life because of it, for it to only add to the problem. He doesn't like his son feeling so low, doesn't like him spending all of his time alone.
John sighs and gets his phone. That other one's eyes have always lit up when it came to their band; he could never resist a gig, no matter how small, and John wonders if that's still true after their world tour. He goes to the listing he'd called just about once a week all those years ago while the band was chomping off huge bites of the Chicago scene, playing anywhere and everywhere as much as they could. When he'd called him twice in a row to book them, and Brandon had reluctantly offered dates three weeks out because they were already scheduled so tightly for the rest of the month, that was when he knew. He'd gladly agreed; the band was going to be a success, all right, and he was still going to have them at his bar as much as he could before they'd eventually start playing bigger and bigger places and leave all of the dives behind.
"Brandon," he says, when he picks up. "John Allgeyer. Need some bar entertainment. Are you free?"
"Yeah!" he says eagerly, then calms a little. "When are you thinking? We're half out right now—bass and drums are in California and Egypt, celebrating engagements, and—sand, I don't know."
He stops, and John knows that he's going to say that he doesn't know what Mark is up to, and he doesn't want to hear him say that. "Just you is fine," he says. "I was thinking an acoustic set." He pauses. "Just you and Mark. If that works. Do I need to call your manager to set up the contract for the performance?"
"I can take care of it. You'll have to sign, but you won't need to pay."
"Works for me. How does tomorrow sound?" He hasn't asked Mark about it yet, but he's almost positive that the boy doesn't have anything else going on. This will be good for him: to focus on his music, to be around people.
"Sounds just fine."
The kid hesitates again, and again, John doesn't want to hear him say what he's about to. "Let me call you back and confirm," he says quickly. "That work?"
"Sure."
"Great. Talk soon." John hangs up and, without looking at the way his wife's looking at him, scrolls to his son's listing in his contacts.
"Hey Dad?" Mark's voice is still flat, like it's been all night whenever he's mumbled anything at them when they've spoken to him, but now there's a question in it, at least. Sure there is. John hasn't called him once since he's come home, and he feels shitty about that as soon as he realizes it. He's been over for dinner, sure, but Colette has been the one to call him, to reach out.
"Hey," he says. "Got a gig for ya, if you're interested. Bar, tomorrow."
Mark doesn't answer right away, and John wonders if he's considering it or thinking of a nice way to refuse. They did just come off what was apparently a massive tour for bands these days, and it certainly didn't treat him well this time. "For the band?" he asks finally.
"No. For you—and Brandon. I already called him," he goes on quickly. "He's free and he's game. Just a short acoustic set, I was thinking. Nothing fancy." He pauses, and this time he lets his eyes drift to Colette, who is watching him and nodding. "Kinda like the old days, you know?"
"Oh." When Mark hesitates, John leaves him alone, lets him go through his thoughts. He doesn't want to push him into it, to make an uncomfortable and awkward situation worse, but, really, at this point, how could it be worse? "Okay," Mark says finally. "Yeah, that might be fun. What time?"
"Want to go on at eight?"
"Okay."
"Great," John says, and means it. "Sounds good, son. I'll see you tomorrow night."
"Okay," Mark says again, and he's gone.
John needs to call Brandon back now to confirm the time, but for a few moments he just holds the phone and looks at his wife, who could hear the entire conversation in the quiet room, everything that was said and everything that wasn't. She breaks their gaze first, looking down at her ad circulars and coupons—not necessary since Mark has paid off their house and all of the rest of their bills and put some of his earnings into an investment folder for them, but old habits die hard—and, slowly, her scissors begin to snip again. John knows how she feels. He calls Brandon back to confirm the time and the performance, and while he hears the kid's excitement about playing again, he's seen him around and known him for the last ten years or so: he can hear apprehension there, too, and he knows why. He hopes he's doing the right thing.
.
Brandon comes into John Allgeyer's bar Triple Rocks for the first time this year; it's familiar and he's happy, glad to be back to one of their old stomping grounds. He hasn't come back since they've been home, not entirely sure he'd be welcome, but the unexpected call and booking from John have put him in a great mood. Optimistic. Things are going to be okay as long as they all say so and mean it; he's now convinced that if they all decide to take their lives back, they can.
He looks around and sees two things in the darkness: the first is that Mark's guitar case is already on the stage, waiting, and the second is that Mark himself is at the bar. Brandon goes quickly up to the stage to drop off his own guitar, leaning it against Mark's, and then he makes his way to the U-shaped bar, sliding onto a stool next to him.
"Hey," he says, cheerful but cautious. It's been weeks since they've talked—they haven't talked at all since coming back home, actually, and have only conversed via text in the band group chat—and he's not sure what the current atmosphere is like. He's told Jack that he thinks it's a good sign that John wants them both to play, that Mark is going to be there, and Jack had agreed, but he knows that he will do better to tread carefully, at least until he can figure out where the mood is.
Mark doesn't look up from his glass, but he answers easily enough, and that's a good sign. "Sup," he says.
"How goes it?"
Mark upends his glass, draining it, then knocks the bottom on the bar twice to get the bartender's attention. "Fine," he says, but he doesn't look at Brandon. Not so good a sign, though it's been a long, long time since they've been easy enough with each other to do that.
The bartender comes over with a small dish of pretzels that she slides in between them, and Mark takes one and munches on it while she makes him a new drink. Brandon waits patiently and is about to order one of his own when, instead of turning to him after setting Mark's fresh glass down on a new napkin, she grabs another clean glass and begins adding ice and Smirnoff.
Brandon watches this curiously, not having recognized the bartender and so thinking that she won't know him from months—years—ago when they and their friends were regulars here, therefore won't know his drink. She does, though: ice, vodka, water, splash of Sprite. Has Mark ordered this for him before he arrived?
"Thanks," Brandon says, when the drink is set on a napkin in front of him. He's not talking to the bartender, but Mark is still studying the ice in his own glass and probably thinks that he is. "So...I thought we'd start with 'Fade' and 'Crawl'," Brandon says then, and he sips his drink, noticing that it's exactly right. "Those two will sound the best with just us. Then I was thinking maybe a cover or two, 'She Talks To Angels' or 'No Excuses', closing out with 'Close' and 'Fake'. That cool?"
"Yeah."
"Do you want to do anything else? Or swap something out?"
"No," Mark says to his glass. "Whatever you want."
"Okay," Brandon says, a little uncertainly, and they drink in silence until he suggests that they get tuned together.
.
John watches from back by his office while they play; he's proud of his son, of all of them, really: their band, their teenaged dream, a reality. Because of Brandon, Mark has said repeatedly, he's the one that dreamed big. He's the one that went after it, he's the one that caught it for all of us. It's just too damn bad that the dream has turned into a nightmare, John thinks. His son still hasn't awakened from it, not totally.
The song over, Mark glances at Brandon to gauge their timing for the next one. Brandon looks back at him and he drops his eyes again. John sighs as Mark leans to the mic again, thanking everyone there for coming out. It's actually a really good turnout for less than twenty-four hours' notice, especially for it only having been advertised on the bar's Facebook and Twitter. It isn't overboard, though—not too public, not too much attention. John thinks that he seems okay now; Mark doesn't look happy, exactly, but he raises his eyes to the faces in the crowd. That's something.
"Anyway, here's 'Wonderwall'," Mark says, but then he starts the opening chord progression of "Crawl" instead, one of their most popular singles. The crowd laughs, and someone cheers loudly; Brandon smirks too as he picks it up, but Mark doesn't look at him to see it.
.
They both agree to hang around afterwards, people squeezed in all around them as they sit opposite each other in a booth, drinks and high-spirited chatter flowing freely. Mark stays quiet while Brandon happily talks about their experiences touring, and after some in the crowd secure autographs, they listen attentively and even take turns asking questions—respectful questions. They seem like a great bunch, interested and curious but not overbearing, and it's so fucking good to be home.
"It's usually a million degrees on stage unless you're outside," Brandon tells someone who asks about drawbacks to playing an amphitheater. "I mean, all the lights, and we move around a lot, and there are thousands of people in there. We toured all through last winter, and venue managers don't want the kids to be cold, especially since big jackets and coats can be a security risk, so they crank the heat—usually far too much, and I'm dying by the time we get backstage and I attempt to climb inside the fridge. I wish there was a good way to stay cool while playing."
There's a beat, and Mark murmurs, "Stand next to a fan?"
Brandon looks at him in surprise. Then, he snorts and grins at the stupid joke. "Right. Yeah, good one."
Mark shrugs, eyes down again, but he smiles a little. After a moment, it slips away.
.
His house is quiet and still, always empty. His life is quiet, still, and empty.
Mark lies in bed on his back, staring up at the ceiling with his hands behind his head. He's had a little fun tonight, though, a little—what? Human interaction. Yeah. It was—okay, pretty good, actually. He's been alone for weeks.
Seeing Brandon, playing with him, that was...it was good, almost like old times. Is that some happiness creeping back? Mark thinks of how they'd played together, in sync as always before. Being near him, the few words they'd passed about their spontaneous set still counting as talking to each other. He remembers Brandon smiling at him, and something happens inside that isn't happiness and isn't new. Every part of him is crushed. It's worse than the nothing, far worse.
This is never going to end, he thinks. I should just kill myself.
Huh.
He closes his eyes and, although it's been a half-formed fleeting thought before, he really considers it now. After several minutes, he realizes that he feels...better. He thinks about it some more, carefully, as if it's a real option, a real solution. Nothing in him screams against it. In fact, he feels peaceful, hopeful. For the first time in a long time, the prospect of spending the rest of his life in this void isn't so painful, so heavy, because there's a way out. Of course there is. All he has to do is take it.
Mark turns on his side and falls asleep almost at once, at ease now that the decision is made.
WARNINGS