Page 129 of Beneath the Stain

They floated to earth, feathers, light and hollowed out, drifting together, chilled and sweating on their bed.

The first thing Mackey said when they were people again and not sound and light took even him by surprise.

“I’m sorry you didn’t see your family, Trav.”

Trav rolled to his side and nuzzled Mackey’s ear. “Next time, tell me you can’t do it. We can make plans for staying in town.”

Ah God. That was his Trav. Practical to the bone. Mackey wouldn’t have loved him so much if he wasn’t.

THEYSTAYEDin and ordered takeout, and Trav called up Astrid and asked her if she could find a replacement to come over for the next two weeks.

Chinese food on the couch hadn’t been quite what Mackey had in mind for his Christmas break, but Trav was there, and they got all of the foil-wrapped chicken to themselves when Kell and Blake usually hogged it, so Mackey called it a win.

Trav called his mother and told her not to meet the plane. Mackey sat in the room for that, since he was partially responsible. She didn’t sound mad, Mackey thought, sort of relieved. Good. Trav didn’t have that to worry about.

Mackey texted Kell about whether or not he should call. Kell texted don’t bother, they’d talk in the morning, but next time to just fricking tell everybody before he freaked them out at the airport like that.

Mackey called him. Just called him.

“What in the fuck?”

Mackey sort of liked how puzzled he sounded. Good strategy, Trav!

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “Man, too many bad memories. I wasn’t gonna make it, not and stay clean. Maybe next year.”

“You got a problem with saying that, little brother?”

Mackey swallowed and closed his eyes. “You don’t like weakness,” he said, and as he said it, his throat swelled and he knew how much it was true, what Kell thought of him.

“I don’t like shit hurting my family,” Kell said firmly. “If it’s going to hurt, tell me about it, okay? Man, we were gonna fucking lose you, do you know that? I didn’t know that until… God. Fucking everything. But I look at it now and I see how close we were to not having you. And how much we need you. So… so just tell us, okay?”

Mackey smiled a little, finding it easier to breathe. “Next time. I promise. Thanks, Kell.”

Kell hung up, probably before he could say something “gay” like “I love you,” but Mackey didn’t care. His brothers loved him. He knew that now. He shouldn’t forget it again.

He and Trav fell asleep early, exhausted emotionally, and it wasn’t until Mackey heard the rhythm of Trav’s breathing next to his ear that he realized he hadn’t picked up his guitar all day.

But that he could, and it would be all right.

It was something of a revelation, that, and it helped him understand the nature of his addictions in a whole new way, but for that moment, he could only be grateful. Trav wasn’t going anywhere. The music wasn’t going anywhere. Mackey could breathe in that rhythm, and he could sleep.

They were still in their underwear the next morning, stumbling around the kitchen making coffee and oatmeal, when the door burst open and Mackey’s family rushed in, his mom in the front and his little brother bringing up the reluctant rear.

In the midst of exclamations and hugs and Mackey’s complete bewilderment, he caught Trav’s eyes.

Rhythm, music, and home. He wasn’t in the perfect place yet, but he had the things in his heart to make it that way. Mackey could keep breathing. It was going to be okay.

Going to California

LATER,AFTERthe band had left for the tour and survived, Trav would be more than grateful for Mackey’s family on Christmas morning. Of course at that particular moment, he was a little disappointed. He’d thought he’d have Mackey to himself for a couple of stress-free weeks. That desire fizzled and died after one look at Mackey’s face. The stunned knowledge that his family hadn’t left him, they wereright there, and that this new life he and Trav were forging wasn’t ephemeral, practically lit him up inside. Trav and Mackey were real and their house would be full of people without the ever-present strain of poverty and barely hidden taint of despair.

The two weeks weren’t perfect. Mackey’s little brother was a complete punk-ass dick, for one. He said “fag” four times in the first five minutes after walking into their kitchen. Trav, after one look at Heather Sanders’s miserable, helpless frustration, took the little asshole by the collar, threw him outside, and slammed the door behind him. He was standing in their driveway in his boxers, but he didn’t give a shit.

“Cheever, how old are you?”

“Thirteen, fagg—”

Trav grabbed him by the throat, which might have worried him if it had been Mackey, but it wasn’t, so his control was perfectly, icily in place. “I am thirty-five. I defended my country, put myself through college, and built a career in a land of sharks. What you say about me does not mean a spot of seagull shit, do you understand me?”