Page 17 of Hamartia
People notice these things. And sometimes it can cause problems.
Tonight would be the first time I’ve seen him in the flesh since that day and it’s the reason I drink a little too much champagne and do three lines of white before we leave. Thank fuck I’m not performing. I doubt I’d be able to make my fingers and throat work at the same time if we were, not with the pressure of the night, coupled with him sat in the audience watching me. On some level I like the idea of him watching me perform, of him seeing me when I’m at my most confident, most assured, but mainly it just scares the shit out of me.
We’re greeted by a few people with tablets and those headset things and then we’re being led to the gauntlet. Unfortunately, I can’t let Camille do the talking as I always do when it’s just us, what with this being about our nominations so I keep my answers short and pretend I’m distracted by how beautiful my fiancé looks. I’m gonna have to circle back and do this with the guys in a bit anyway, where Crawf normally does most of the talking.
“You look so good, baby,” she whispers at me while the cameras go off a few feet away from us. She brings her mouth to my ear. “I can’t wait to fuck you later. Limo on the way home?” She pulls back to ask. Innocent as you like.
I grin and lean in to kiss her. “Sounds good.”
The cameras go nuts.
We’re being interviewed by a pretty English girl from The NME when I first spot him.
He’s at the far end of the gauntlet, just arriving it looks like, surrounded by his band and about twenty other people. Of course, he stands out. His hair is a pale soft purple. His body looking tall and lean, all angles and grace under a dark blue suit. Moving through space like a fucking dream.
I’m talking about the album title but my words just break off, my whole attention caught in his snare. Only when he disappears behind a mass of bodies does my mind switch back online.
The night is long and fucking boring. We don’t win in Alternative but we weren’t tipped to. Record is up later but we don’t have a shot in that one either. The album award is near the end and so I’ve been trying not to overdo it, but I’m aware I’ve had way too much to drink.
He’s on the other side of the room, about eight tables away, but I can see him every time there’s movement in between and he’s often laughing with one of his bandmates—a small thing with bleached white hair. I’m staring too hard when I feel Cleo nudge me gently and I blink back in.
“Earth to Raphael,” she says.
“Sorry, I thought I saw someone there who hated our album,” I laugh.
She laughs too loud and then the others make me repeat it and they laugh too. It’s hard. To stay focused and stop my eyes from searching him out, drawn to where I think he might be. I’m going to go speak to him at some point. I’d thought about it for weeks, since I heard he was going to be here. Now, I’m thinking that was a fucking terrible idea because I can’t think. Can’t speak without slurring. Not a single coherent thought in my head.
I need a drink. No, a line. Something to sharpen my thoughts.
“You okay?” It’s Zeke, an arm slung around my shoulders. “You look like you’ve checked out.”
“Bored as shit, dude.”
He laughs and nods, reaching over to fill up our glasses.
The thing most people don’t realize about awards shows is that they’re fucking boring. They’re long—real fucking long—and when you don’t give a shit about who’s performing or winning awards, you start wishing you’d stayed the fuck home. I’m not even listening when they announce the next performer. I’m listening to Zeke talk about the gig he went to in Calabasas again—some Latin jazz multi-instrumentalist that just lost out to someone in his category and Crawf thinks is the greatest musician he’s ever seen—but then the lights are dimming and there’s a blue spotlight pouring down on the stage lighting up a figure dressed all in white.
Behind him, another light drops from the ceiling, highlighting a black gloss piano with Haven Williams sat behind it dressed head to toe in black.
I know it’s him before he even moves, before the first notes of the piano hit the air. But then he’s dancing and I’m not breathing.
It’s the song that’s been everywhere for months. It’s the song he dances to in the video I’ve watched countless times. It’s move for move the same dance, though the arrangement of the song is stripped down for piano and a violin that appears in the background half a minute in, and then a guy playing a Spanish guitar.
But he’s all I see.
He’s wearing a more tailored version of the loose silk pajama bottoms and shirt he wears in the video, feet bare, hair covering his face slightly. Haven sings, incredibly raw and emotive. And he dances, matching every bit of that emotion. The song had been huge already, but his dance video had made it bigger. Last I checked there was 59 million views on it. Her original music video had a quarter of that. They’re both in complete sync. I realize then that his moves don’t just match the beat, like a dancer’s should, but they match the lyrics too. It’s like I get it then. Dance. The concept of it. A fucking epiphany.
When it’s done I can only stare dumbfounded for a few beats, like everyone else in the place, then the applause starts snapping me out of it.
Haven gets up from her piano and crosses the stage to meet him, hugging him tightly. Like they’re friends. A weird rush of envy comes at me as I understand how far away from being able to do that I am. Hold him in some way. Touch him.
“Lee Jaehyun,” Haven says into the microphone, pointing at him with a clap and shake of her head, and the crowd cheers again. It’s the audience behind us that make the most noise though, a roar louder than anything I’ve heard tonight. He puts his hand over his heart and does this little bow to the crowd, then waves at those making the noise behind us.
When they disappear from the stage, feeling rushes back into my body. My chest feels weird, my head too light, and my mouth is so fucking dry I have to peel my tongue from the roof of it. I reach out for the closest thing to me—a bottle of tequila—and down several gulps.
“Who the fuck did she say that was?” Crawford asks.
I can’t figure out the tone of his voice but I know that I don’t like it.