"Do you remember every original lyric to 'Welcome Home'? Could you sing it right now?"
Back in the midst of that single, life-changing decision, Wayne didn't have time to consider what Donny had meant by original lyrics. It was a song about the war, he'd known that much, but all thought of content had slipped his mind until Julia stood tall on that bandstand—belting the words for millions of Americans to hear.
The lyrics stung, but they rang with a hard truth.
And they sure as hell were going to slap some out there in the face.
No one had moved as the curtain fell. For what felt like hours, no one had moved a single inch except to gasp for breath.
Either no one wanted to make the first move, or they didn't know how. Wayne hadn't, not after something like that. Not when the lyrics were spinning around in his head, making him dizzy enough to tumble right off the bandstand.
Maybe that wouldn't have been so bad, though. Falling. Hitting his head. Maybe even slipping into blessed unconsciousness. Chaos like that would have at least served to get the team moving again…
But, then it would have turned into a whole big thing, and Wayne didn't want to be the cause of yet another catastrophe. Not that kind, at least. The kind he would have to wake up to—to come back to and deal with, somehow.
No, the only catastrophe he would ever welcome was the kind from which he wouldn't have to return.
That kind no one could come back from.
At some point, the broadcast staff ushered them backstage. Someone chewed them all out, Wayne couldn't remember who, but the man had more than a few choice words for Donny and Julia. The only light at the end of the tunnel seemed to be the fact that Donny had been given back his song release form.
And he couldn't even take it. His hands shook too much, no matter how tightly he'd tried to fist them. Jimmy ended up accepting the form, taking the papers back with a subtle string of venom lacing his movement.
The question after that had been, what next?
No one knew.
Johnny had suggested dinner, and while no one had turned that down, per se, an unspoken resolve had hovered in the air. The kind of resolve that had them all returning to their hotel rooms after grabbing a quick bite from a street vendor.
Wayne could still feel the food churning in his stomach hours later. He hadn't been hungry; had forced himself to eat something because logic had told him he would regret it later if he didn't.
Now, he found himself regretting everything. The band, the contest, and the food especially. Maybe hunger pains wouldn't have been so bad. They might've even been distracting.
Was it better to hope, even if those hopes would eventually be shattered? Or was it better not to get your hopes up at all?
If he'd passed up Donny's offer, where would he be right now? Would everything have hurt a little less than it did now, lying alone in the dark? Or would it have hurt so much worse?
Would he even still be here…?
The handgun in the drawer at home called out his name, cursing him for leaving it behind. If there was ever a time for it…
It's now—
"—Their rooms are better."
Nick's voice cut through the darkness, startling Wayne out of the dark trail his thoughts had been trying to explore—and reminding him that he wasn't alone anymore.
"What?" he asked, glancing at the other bed, even though he knew he'd be met with only a thick blanket of black.
"I'm just saying that I think their rooms are better. Better views and all that. Plus, I noticed Davy had a liquor cart in his."
"I think he had that sent up last night."
"Still, we could've used something like that earlier."
"I can think of something quicker." His own words pricked at the back of his mind. Part of him knew he'd never forget how Julia had looked at him then, her eyes knowing… and so incredibly sad.
No one was supposed to miss him. Four months ago—even two months ago—no one would have, and that was fine.
It used to be fine.
Now, the people in the three rooms on either side of his own wouldn't let him just disappear. When the days grew dark and life decided to kick his legs out from under him again, the brother in the bed across the room wouldn't let him just disappear.
It was a more recent development that Wayne still found himself grappling with when the pistol in the drawer whispered his name.
Just when he thought things couldn't possibly get any worse, life screwed him over again.
And again.
They were done. The band was finished.
There's no way we can come back from—
"And another thing…" Nick's voice pierced the dark, louder this time, catching Wayne's distracted attention. "For as high-class a hotel as this is, have you noticed how drafty it gets in here at night? I swear, it's like the tundra."
But at least it was clean. The sheets were so crisp, the pillowcases so white, that Wayne could still smell the detergent on them.
"If the air conditioning is too high, you can always turn it down."
"Would you quit it?" Despite the darkness, he realized he could picture exactly what kind of expression Nick sported. "You're ruining my wallowing."
"Yeah?" Wayne swallowed a sigh. "Well, maybe I just don't want to hear it right now."
"Yeah?" Nick countered, a different kind of edge seeping into his tone. "Well, maybe I don't want to have to think about the Palace Theater."
"Neither do I, but you're not doing either of us any favors by nitpicking more things that are wrong with this world, so just knock it off, will you?"
"And let the silence eat me alive? No way in hell. No thanks, Lieutenant. No thanks." A beat of silence followed, and before Wayne could come up with something else to say, his roommate's voice softened. "It just… It helps to complain about the smaller things sometimes… the trivial ones. Keeps my mind off the big disasters… the stuff that'll kill me to think about."
Oh.
It made sense in a very warped, very Nick sort of way.
Shifting onto his side, Wayne strained to make out Nick's frame through the dark. "Now that you mention it… these beds are too soft. Though, maybe I'm just used to something firmer, I don't know."
"No, you're right, they're almost sickening in their plushy thickness. And I think that train ride gave me a crick in my back…"
Wayne couldn't help but snort. "Now, you're just grasping at straws. That was the smoothest train I've ever ridden in my life."
"To agree with you would defeat the purpose of the wallowing."
"But you do agree."
"... I don't have to answer that."
This time, Wayne's snort turned into a chuckle, then an all-out laugh.
"Oh, so now I'm a joke to you?" Despite his words, there was no mistaking the humor in Nick's voice. "Also, why did Donny get the longest verse? Even you and Jimmy got a longer segment. I had to share my verse with two other people."
"Well," Wayne began, his laughter fading, "maybe she'll write you a whole song someday."
"Maybe I'd like that."
The silence that settled, then, couldn't decide if it wanted to be comfortable or tense. As life's best kind of medicine, the laughter had soothed some of the earlier aching, but at the mention of Julia's song…
"He could never get back the life he had, faced with raising kids who did not recognize their—"
A thump rang out in the darkness. A faint knock against Wayne's headboard from the next room over.
"Was that…?"
The thump was shortly followed by a cheer.
"Johnny and Davy." Nick let out a groan. "They're probably drunk. It's that dumb liquor cart—which I still wish we had, too, by the way."
Wayne propped himself up on an elbow. There didn't seem to be any point in pretending to be tired, not when half the band was living it up next door.
Not living it up, no. Making it go away.
"Do you want to order one, then?"
Nick answered that question by climbing out of bed and switching on the light. "Why get our own when they have one?"
"Knowing Davy, it's probably all gone by now." But Wayne slipped out from under his covers, sliding on his shoes that sat dutifully at the foot of the bed. The hotel might have been clean, but no vacuum could suck up the collective dirt and germs from thousands of hotel guests embedded in the carpet. "But," he went on, sucking in a breath and rolling his shoulders, "anything's better than wallowing in the dark."
"Hey, I thought you liked my wallowing. You were really getting into it."
"It's contagious, that's what it is."
Nick just rolled his eyes as they made their way into the bright hallway.
Squinting against the sudden light, Wayne found he couldn't get to Davy and Johnny's room fast enough, which was blessedly dim.
"Probably to help with the hangover later," came Nick's muttered comment, as if he'd been reading Wayne's very thoughts.
"Nick!" Davy exclaimed, turning his drunken gaze toward the open door. "And Wayne! Another toast, Johnny," he went on, raising his glass. "To Wayne and Nick, two of the finest human beings I've ever had the pleasure of knowing! To the best of the best!"
"The best of the best!" Johnny echoed.
Sitting close on the edge of one of the beds, they clinked their glasses together.
Wayne couldn't put a name to the emotions that now flooded through his chest, but they were unmistakably good.
It was just another reminder that more people would miss him than he had originally thought.
Should anything happen.
"Thanks," Nick said, claiming one of the chairs—the one, Wayne noted, positioned nearest to the liquor. "But you guys have probably been toasting everyone you can think of and their mothers, so skip the sentiment and pour me a whiskey."
"One whiskey…" Davy began as he tossed a fresh glass to Johnny.
The drummer caught it with a practiced ease that did absolutely nothing to soothe the mental image of glass shattering all over the floor that had assaulted Wayne's mind. "... Coming right up!"
They poured Wayne a drink, too, but he didn't take a seat. Not when the only remaining chair had an unidentified stain marring the front of its cushion.
"Another toast!" Davy raised his glass, voice slurred and shaky. It reminded Wayne of Donny's sloppy cursive on the bottom of that damn release form. "To Freddie McClaren, that wonderful cabbie driver who got us all back to this here hotel without a hitch! To the best of the best!"
"The best of the best!" came Johnny's familiar echo.
And then another clink.
Nick kept his glass to himself, not taking the time to raise his arm in a toast. Instead, he just took a long drink of whiskey. "See? I knew they were just toasting whoever's currently on the brain."
Maybe. But that didn't erase the sentiment, the warmth, the brotherhood that had been steadily growing between them all. Until tonight… Until that split-second decision to go out there and slap the whole of America in the face, Wayne hadn't realized just how strong a bond they all had. It was a thick cord born of equal parts pain and perseverance, tying the band together in an unbreakable cluster.
If we can get through this, we can get through anything…
"Here, here!" Davy's enthusiastic shout was startling in and of itself, but perhaps even more startling was the way they were all looking at Wayne now.
Like he had accidentally said that out loud.
Damn it.
It was a sappy thought, one that was meant to stay inside his head, but now that his lips had betrayed him, Wayne couldn't think of anything to do other than down his drink.
Beneath their drunken haze, Johnny and Davy's eyes seemed… content. Grateful that someone had voiced what they were all thinking.
Nick's gaze held a touch of something Wayne couldn't make out, but it very lightly resembled relief. Because maybe the worst wasn't over. Maybe it would never be over. Not for any of them, no.
But maybe it would get easier. Easier now that they had each other to lean on when things went wrong. Now that they all had someone to share a drink with when the darkness closed in around them.
Easier now that none of them were alone.
Not anymore.
Easier… Wayne let Davy pour him another glass.
Easier now that he knew for certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there were seven people out there who would miss him.
Should anything happen.
As Davy began leading their next toast, Wayne let himself embrace a new feeling.
A feeling that it wouldn't.