Page 7 of Hamartia

I study the picture message from Cam, of her in bed wearing a white lace bra and nothing else.

Thought of you. Night babe x,it reads.

I text her back, telling her she looks gorgeous—which is true, she does—and that I passed out with the TV on, not a lie either. I try not to tell too many lies generally because I sort of feel like the big one I’m keeping is a fucking leviathan that leaves little room in my gut for much else.

The sound is shit in the venue and I tell the sound manager that. I can barely hear anything in the in-ear and that’s before we pack the space with six thousand people screaming. The guys play shit too, but I don’t tell them that. I just sing and play and hope that everything will be alright in seven hours. If not, it won’t matter half as much, as I’ll be shit faced by then.

There’s coke in Crawf’s hotel room after we get back from soundcheck. Gorgeous, perfect white lines that remind me of Jaehyun’s body. The first line does nothing thanks to my tolerance. The second and third work wonders before I wander back to my room to shower.

I’m lying naked and damp on the bed when the notification comes in.

He’s posted. It’s a clip of him dancing to the Haven Williams song that’s been everywhere for weeks. It’s been at the top of the Billboard 100 for the last month at least.

The room he’s in looks like a dance studio, white curtains and bright white sunlight. He’s in loose black trousers that might be silk, a black shirt that’s partly see-through, with only one button fastened low on his chest, glimpses of a hard flat stomach peeking out when he moves.

His hair is longer than it’s been in other posts, but then he normally wears a hat. It’s half tied up, but still falling perfectly around his face. His feet are bare as he dances across a polished wooden floor.

It’s just him and the music, falling and rising, rising and falling. A spin and then a leap before his arms wrap around himself and he freezes, standing still to stare straight at the camera. The camera rushes toward him, stopping about a foot away to look at him dead on. His eyes are wide, he’s breathing hard, then his lips part ever so slightly as the softest whisper of a smirk comes over his mouth. Then the screen fades to black. My cock hardens. Soft to rock hard in the blink of an eye. Or in the lift of a mouth.Hismouth.

My journal is on the dining table. The lyrics are a mess, like they always are to start. My handwriting too. I just write words, some sentences that sound good, lines from books or other songs that I like.Tongue, lips, skin of light. Nothing ever feels right. You’re not right.But I wipe that because Camille will think it’s about her.

I call room service and have them send up a bottle of Jameson from the bar because I’d already had the whiskey from the minibar when I got back from Crawford’s room. And because it’s the only thing that helps dull the rising anxiety I get before a show.

I don’t really remember getting dressed. The gig though, I remember. It’s the only thing that settles me. Being that out of it, that loose, that free, that completely unhindered by anything that’s going on my fucking head. I think about one thing, and one thing only: performing. It’s all I’m here on this earth for. The only thing I can do that no one can argue with. I am born for this. Maybe I got it from Finn. Maybe I honed it myself after all these years of hard work. I want it to be the latter—I don’t want to owe him anything.

For these two hours where I move and talk and smirk and dance, I am what they say I am. A person I recognize. The crowd are everything I need them to be. Present, faithful, focused. All things I’m not. I know I’m off-key throughout “Black River”, the guys know it too, but the crowd don’t. Or if they do, they don’t give a shit.

We don’t do encores. We never have. But tonight, I want to. Tonight, I don’t want to go back to the hotel room and be left alone to think.

So, I go out with the guys to a club in West Loop where the company have booked us a section. It’s styled like a dive joint, but it has high ceilings and a huge wraparound bar that has every whiskey imaginable lit up behind it. It’s 4am when we’re barreled out and into a few cars, and there are a few paps waiting. One of them I recognize because the guy literally follows us everywhere. Phil, I’m sure his name is. I’m not sure how much money I’ve made for Phil but it’s substantial.

When I’m standing in front of my room, I realize I’ve lost my key card and because I can’t be fucked going back downstairs, I bang on Mason’s door. Crawford brought a girl back and Zeke and Cleo will be asleep already so my options are pretty limited. When I get in there, he’s not ready to sleep and opens another bottle of champagne, sets up a few lines, and proceeds to talk aboutHow Atom Heart Motheris Pink Floyd’s most underrated album for the next hour before my eyes start closing over and I’m out cold on the sofa.

I don’t dream about him.

September

We’re sprawled across Crawf’s sectional still half asleep. It’s ungodly to ask rockstars—ha fucking ha—to be awake at this time in the morning. Normally we don’t bother getting up for it, but this year it feels important. Feels like we might have a chance. Or we’re deluded and have read way too much into that Rolling Stone article.

The last album was a shift, one we all felt. It was fight after fight with Cleo and me keen to push us in this direction, Crawf on the fence as usual, and Mase and Zeke stuck back in the fucking 90’s. On the whole, Cleo and I won, coming out of the fights we’d had on top. It was Hell. Mainly. Every fucking day of it.

But the album was out. It hadn’t done the numbersChopperhad, but it was early days and word of mouth was king—plus the reviews had been better than anything we’d put out previously. Could we seriously pull a Grammy nomination out of the bag for it? We’d scraped into the New Artist category three years ago but hadn’t won, been disappointed the last two years, but this felt…different. It felt like we had it. Not just the nomination, but the fucking award.

I don’t tend to examine these feelings too closely when I have them. This sure as fuck certainty that creeps up and curls a hand round my throat every now and again, and I never talk about it out loud—I’ve had it only a handful of times before. When I fronted DP for the first time, when we got signed by Halcyon four years back, two years ago in a Paris bathroom, and right this second.

It’s like anxiety but more potent. Loud and rumbling. I can barely breathe.

Two categories before ours is the Pop Group/Duo award. I’m not expecting to see their name—I amtrulynot even thinking about him—but when they’re announced as nominees this weird thing happens in my chest. All bubbles and warmth. Like pride or something. I’m sure they’ve been nominated before, I’m certain I read something about them being the only Korean act to have been nominated before.

Mason scoffs as their name pops up and mutters something to Crawford that I can’t hear from here but that makes Cleo roll her eyes. They get one for best Pop Vocal Album too. Two Grammy nominations in a single year for an Asian act is incredible.

I think of his face smiling with delight and wonder what his posts are going to be—because he’s going to post a celebration—I know he will.

Then it’s our category. Best Rock Album.

That grip around my throat squeezes. I clutch at the fabric of Crawford’s sofa because I can barely fucking handle it. If we don’t get this, it’s tantamount to me ruining our band. I know it is. I feel it not only in my blood but in the vibe of the guys scattered around me. Cleo wouldn’t blame me. Her and I had been aligned the entire time we’d worked on this and we’d written almost everything. The rest, well, they’d blame us. Me.

I glance briefly at Crawford, who’s rolling a joint on this stomach, looking non-plussed but it’s an act. He pauses as the guy smiles and talks awkwardly about how great rock music is. About how it dictates the zeitgeist, about how it keeps the world turning, about how there has never been a time in the last 100 years where rock music has not ruled the world.