Heroic Dose

"Ches… What the heck are you wearing?" Glam froze, fist still poised in mid-air to knock on the bus door a fourth time, as he stared at Ches. More specifically, at Ches's legs which fidgeted nervously beneath a very plaid, very pink, and very short pleated skirt. "Dude, don't ask questions," Ches groaned, grabbing Glam by the hand and reeling him inside. Glam tripped his way up the short steps, nearly falling face-first into the driver's seat, as the door folded shut behind him with a pneumatic hiss. The red curtains had been drawn over the front windshield, bathing the bus's interior in a scarlet hue that contrasted with the noonday sunlight outside. Gripping the defunct steering wheel for balance and readjusting the guitar strap over his shoulder, he shot a peeved look back at Ches. "What gives? We had rehearsal today. Did you seriously blow it off to...to..." His voice petered out as his eyes adjusted to the dim and he could appreciate the full absurdity of Ches's getup. His green jacket was missing, and in place of his usual T-shirt hung a black crop-top—some poor band shirt that he'd gone to town on with scissors. Its collar scooped low enough to reveal his blushing chest that fluttered in fitful breaths. The skirt's waistband cinched Ches's narrow waist, and his bare thighs were spread apart and quaking where he was braced against the door. If Glam didn't know any better, he'd almost think Ches was having trouble standing upright. Concern creased his brow. Ches was many things—laid-back, unhurried, a little sloppy—but he was never one to miss a rehearsal. After nearly half an hour of waiting on stage that morning with an incomplete band, Lordy and Bob had called it off in a huff, leaving Glam with the task of checking up on their vocalist. Not that Glam really minded. Ever since Ches had moved into his new place, Glam had been itching for an excuse to see his best friend. Their days of sharing the same roof were long behind them, back when a single twin-sized bed in the rear of a beat-up trailer home had been all they had and all they needed. While Glam appreciated the privacy his living space behind the studio now offered, he couldn't deny that he missed the way things used to be: impromptu jam sessions, playing records until the sun came up, or climbing up to the roof to gaze at the stars, just the two of them dreaming of a future as rockstars. They very nearly had that future now. With the band really taking off and gaining a loyal following, hardly a day went by when they weren't working to make their dream a reality. But success came at a price. Despite being together for band practice and concerts, after-parties and the occasional recording session, Glam and Ches hadn't really hung out in any meaningful way for months. How could they when the dream was constantly taking their attention? However, Glam had come over today, expecting to make up for at least some lost time. What he hadn't been expecting was to walk in on this. Provocative was not a word Glam had ever thought to associate with Ches, but the way Ches squirmed in place, fisting the hem of his skirt and tugging it down in vain—a few inches of fabric could only go so far—he couldn't come up with a better description. If Ches was trying to be modest, he was failing miserably, only drawing more attention to his apparent predicament. Glam swallowed. "C'mon, dude." Ches's voice had no business sounding as sultry as it did. "Eyes up here." Said eyes were currently unfocused, glassy and slightly pinched above a strained smile. It was then that Glam noticed the sweat glossing Ches's face, olive skin bronzed by an internal heat. "Wait a second," Glam started slowly. "Are you feeling okay?" Ches answered with a high, meandering laugh, brushing Glam off and stumbling past the small kitchenette to what constituted the bus's living room. There was a fold-out table affixed to one wall and a deflated bean bag slouched across from it. A cheap string of LED lights had been strung up at some point, now kinked and neglected. At the far rear of the bus was the bedroom, where the unmade bed's sheets and duvet were spilling onto the carpet. "Ah, shit. Was rehearsal today?" Ches flopped into the bean bag, scrubbing a hand down his face. "Guess I forgot." Another giggle. "Sorry." "You forgot," Glam repeated, rolling his eyes and shrugging off the guitar before propping it against the wall. Just above it hung a whiteboard where Ches's crowded to-do list was scrawled in marker. He rapped on it with his knuckles. "You know we've got a gig this weekend, and the place won't be available for a sound-check again until Friday. Do you have any idea how pissed Lordy is?" Incense saturated the air, almost smothering. There was sheet music and clothing littering the floor, and Glam had to step carefully as he made his way over to open a window. The curtains were made of silk, woven through with an elaborate paisley pattern. Expensive-looking. "After Lordy's letting you crash here, you think you'd show a little more respect. You don't want him telling his parents who's been trashing Julia for the past month, do you?" Julia. That was the name of Mr. and Mrs. Bellegarde's converted school bus, a relic from their glory days when they used to tour the country as a moderately successful folk music duo—in between their shareholders' meetings, that is. Rich, eccentric, and former flower children from the '60s, the Bellegardes had spared no expense for their little home-away-from-home on wheels. The schoolie was outfitted with every amenity suited for life on the road and then some, surprisingly roomy and meticulously decorated in Mrs. Bellegarde's unique personal aesthetic: royal bohemian. Luxurious hanging fabrics of red and purple, wall-to-wall plush carpeting, and gold accents cocooned its inhabitants in their own slice of suburban nirvana. Nowadays, however, the Bellegardes could be often found sailing the Caribbean in their private yacht rather than touring on the road. So Julia sat semi-retired on a corner of the sprawling Bellegarde Estate, comfortably canopied by trees and providing shelter to any visiting wildlife, whether it be raccoons or opossums—or the occasional displaced teenager. "Trashing what-now? Aw, c'mon, man." Ches winced when the sun's rays hit him in the face, looking as offended as if the crisp springtime air and glittering sunlight had just insulted his mother. He sank down lower to dip back into the safety of the shadows. "I take plenty good care of her." As if to illustrate his point, he patted the wall next to him affectionately. A strip of wallpaper peeled off in a coil. They both stared at it. "Just ignore that." Julia had seen better days. Over the course of a few months, the hippie vacation home had suffered the ravages of a messy teenage boy, complete with a rainbow of stains on the upholstery and dark smudges on the wallpaper left by unwashed hands. The kitchenette was kept nearly immaculate, but only because Ches's diet consisted of frozen meals and takeout. Glam was certain he'd have the place turned around in a heartbeat if it were up to him. "I swear, if Mrs. Bellegarde saw this." Glam tsked, trying to sound disapproving, even when he was busy eyeing the edge of Ches's skirt which had ridden precariously high up his thighs. Ches shrugged. "Nah, Lordy wouldn't rat me out, dude." He closed his eyes and settled back into the bean bag, arms folded behind his head. "He likes me too much." There was a breezy confidence in the way he said it that made Glam's skin prickle. He rubbed absentmindedly at his leather wristband as he stood there, trying to come up with some clever quip to say in reply. Something that would knock some of that confidence down a peg, or at least knock Lordy down a peg. Nothing came. In the end, he settled on stammering out, "Y-yeah? Well, who doesn't?" Glam's heart gave him a mean kick in the ribs for his faux pas. Too close, he reprimanded himself, as he turned to look out the window at Bellegarde Manor which sat high and imposing at the end of the manicured lawn. Ches probably didn't even mean anything by it, but Glam always got flustered when he talked about Lordy that way. It wasn't that Glam disliked the guy. Hell, Lordy was a solid enough bass player. He could be counted on to attend rehearsal, and he approached his band duties with a fastidiousness that was outmatched only by his arrogance. Everyone knew Lordy could be hard to work with, but as the band's unofficial financier, what other choice did they have? If it weren't for Lordy, WhoAreThoseFreaksOnStage? would never have had the means to perform live at venues around the city, let alone go on tour. They owed Lordy everything for getting them where they were today. And Lordy sure as hell made sure they didn't forget it. Glam couldn't begrudge him for that. As a former member of high society himself, Glam had met enough trust fund babies to know that Lordy was simply a product of his affluent upbringing. Raised by parents who'd struck it rich in the pool cue business, Lordy had also grown up in a stately mansion, surrounded by the finer things in life, just like Glam had. Their families had run in the same circles, frequenting dinner parties reserved for the upper echelons of society, and rubbing elbows with the same business magnates. Glam was surprised to learn that they'd even attended the same private kindergarten. But that was where the similarities ended. Though they may have both been highborn, Glam—then Sebastian Shwagenwagens—had been barely tolerated by his family, something to be regimented and monitored like a prisoner. Lordy—then Lorenzo Bellegarde—on the other hand, had been cherished as the apple of his parents' eye. Their perfect only child. Lordy was incapable of doing wrong, every whim granted no matter how fleeting. The Bellegardes didn't even bat an eye when their son wanted to get a tattoo of a snake on his belly at the ripe age of 13. So, naturally, when Lordy announced to his parents that he was going to become a rockstar with a band, they were only too happy to provide. Sound equipment and instruments of the highest quality were gifted to him, and their practice studio had been purchased outright by Lordy's father as a sweet 16 birthday present. By the time Glam had joined them, they already had the makings of a semi-professional band. That level of privilege, however, didn't come without its fair share of entitlement. Lordy had earned his nickname, all right. He considered himself God's gift to the heavy metal scene, crediting his bass guitar skills as the sole reason why they'd been scouted by their manager in the first place. On more than one occasion, he'd threatened to break up the band if he didn't get his way. Pompous and with a stubborn streak a mile wide, was it any wonder they still hadn't decided on a band name after half a year? But the thing about Lordy that rubbed Glam the wrong way wasn't Lordy's pushiness. Nor his enduring wealth. It was, in fact, the exact opposite of that. Because even though Lordy could have every luxury, he still chose to play the part of the starving artist. He wore stained shirts paired with designer belts, put dollar store bows in his $150 haircut. And drove a van with the bumper falling off, even though he could have it replaced with a single phone call to dear old daddy. To Lordy, being poor was an aesthetic, and he took pride in making himself out to be just like "the common people." Doing whatever it was that common people did, living the way common people lived. Sleeping with common people. Glam closed the curtains again with a swish, blocking out the outside world. He suddenly didn't want to think about Lordy right now. "Anyway!" he began, his tone a little too bright, a little too forced. "Seeing as rehearsal was a bust, I guess we'll just have to practice here." He turned on his heel and sat at the table across from Ches. "Check it out. Lordy printed these up for everyone," he said, leaning over and dropping a bundle of sheet music onto Ches's lap. The latest round of edits for the concert's setlist. He was just pulling his guitar out from its case when Ches finally seemed to register what he'd said and straightened a little in the bean bag. "Y-you're staying?" "Of course," Glam said matter-of-factly, already sifting through the paraphernalia scattered across the table in search of something useful to write on. There were wrappers and takeout containers and empty beer bottles that left sticky crescent moons where they'd sat. A roll of candy—Ches and his sweet tooth—lay half-finished beneath a sheet of paper crowded with what might have been song lyrics. Glam placed the candy aside and looked over the chicken scratch with pursed lips. "You're clearly sick, or drunk, so I can't just leave you like this, can I?" This earned him a snicker, and Ches flopped his arms over his face. "I'm not sick, Glam. And I'm not drunk." For some reason, this was incredibly funny to him, and he dissolved into a giggle fit as Glam raised a questioning brow at him. Glam forced a chuckle, wishing he were in on the joke. Laying his guitar across his lap, he said, "Okay, then. If you're not drunk, then why are you dressed like that?" "Dressed like what?" Ches looked down at himself, plucking at the skirt's hem as though noticing it for the first time. "Oh, right, right." There was a long pause. "Hello?" "Oh, right, right." It seemed to be taking him some effort to focus on the question. "Gift from Lordy." Lordy? Why did it have to be Lordy? An image of Lordy showing up at the schoolie's door, just like Glam had, sprang to mind unbidden. He could picture him, smarmy grin in place, as he handed over the shopping bag containing the freshly bought skirt. Knowing Lordy, it had probably come from some pricey boutique. The kind of gift meant to impress. The kind of gift meant to buy someone's affections. "Yeah, it's part of this idea we had for the band. Really push the whole 'freak' thing, right? See, I go up there on stage, but get this. I'm in a skirt. The crowd'll eat it up." Ches chuckled. He was leafing through the papers on his lap, hardly looking at the print, but something on the final page seemed to catch his attention, and he peered at it closely as he continued, "So I figured I'd break it in, see how it feels." "And?" Glam asked casually, acting for all intents and purposes like everything was perfectly fine, even when the first hints of jealousy had already begun to prowl just beyond the shadows of his mind. "It's not bad." Ches tossed the papers aside in favor of smoothing his hands down his thighs and over his knees. "You should try it too sometime." Glam snorted, trying to quell the same jealousy as it slunk down to his stomach, pacing in an angry switchback, at the thought of Ches and Lordy hanging out together and making plans without him. "Thanks, but no thanks." "Don't knock it till you've tried it, dude. It's a little drafty, but I dunno. Makes me feel sorta sexy. Y'know?" You have no idea. Like Ches needed any help in that area. The short boy in tattered kicks had more allure than he let on. With looks that could hardly be considered conventionally attractive, he could still charm the girls—and guys, for that matter—with ease. Glam had seen Ches work his magic on more than one occasion, watching from the sidelines as groupies stumbled over themselves just to bask in Ches's light. Glam couldn't blame them. After what he and Ches had been through, Glam knew firsthand that Ches was...life-changing. "You? Sexy? In your dreams," Glam lied instead. Ches laughed. Glam laughed. And things were right back to where they were supposed to be: Glam watching his friend—fearless and bold and unshakable Ches—from afar. Too afraid to make a move. But better this than mess it up and risk losing what they already had. Before he realized what he was doing, he was scratching at his wristband again. Old habits die hard. Letting out his breath through his nose, he shook out his hands. He'd come here to have a good time, he reminded himself, and that was exactly what he was going to do. Glam distracted himself by fishing out one of the candies—a small, pastel-colored tablet—from its foil wrapper and popping it into his mouth. Tarty sweetness burst over his tongue as he sucked on the sugary treat. Not bad. At least it gave his stomach something to focus on. He readjusted his guitar and settled his fingers over the strings. "Fine. Well, whatever's up with you, you're stuck with me until you're over it." "That's sweet." Ches said distractedly, busy sliding further down into the bean bag. He held his arms straight overhead and watched his hands move around and around in figure 8s as if they were the most fascinating things in the world. Glam munched on another candy as he eyed him curiously. Definitely drunk, then. "So anyway. There was some feedback about the opening song. The second verse could still use some work, right around here..."

***

"No, no, no. Dude, dude. You gotta listen to me," Ches was saying excitedly. It had been three-quarters of an hour, and he'd since given up his seat on the bean bag to roll around on the floor. An assortment of throw pillows and a blanket pulled off the mattress had formed his own personal makeshift bed. Or nest. Or something. Either way, it looked really comfy. "Dude," Glam parroted back at him, his chin nearly slipping off his hand where it was propped up on the table. "Dude, I'm serious." "Dude." Ches frowned at him. Or, more accurately, at the space six inches to his left. "Dude. Are you making fun of me?" "Of course not." Oops, that came out a bit loud, didn't it. "Well, go on, genius. Whatcha got?" He snorted out a laugh. "Okay." Ches clutched a pillow to his chest as he gazed off into the middle distance. "So then the next line goes 'No need to tune you, your pitch...is perfect.'" He paused for effect, astounded by his own talent. Looking over, eyes all big and round, he asked hopefully, "Get it? Cuz music?" "Yes, Ches, I get it." "Well, put it in there! C'mon! C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!" He wouldn't stop pestering until Glam had picked up the pencil and scribbled down the words. His eyes shone with a manic glee that Glam couldn't help but find adorable. Adorable? I meant funny. Yeah, it was just funny. In fact, everything seemed funnier than usual. Why was that? Oh, right. Duh, because he was hanging out with Ches. Everything was always more fun with him around. The guy knew just what to say to lighten the mood and make Glam feel at ease, really just let loose and be himself for once. It was only when they were together that Glam realized how often he went through the day like a tightly wound spring. Here, things were just more relaxed, the world seen through—chartreuse-honeydew-emerald-sepia—rose-tinted glasses. Sorta like this bus. Glam felt a strange prickle run across his scalp. A bus. What a weird place to live. He reached mindlessly for another candy, realizing with a small amount of guilt that he'd nearly polished off the entire roll. There were only two tablets left. The compacted sugar crumbled nicely under his molars—super nice—as he looked over the lyrics he'd written down. He had to admit, Ches was on it today. Every idea was fresh and dynamic, rife with clever slant rhymes that Glam had never imagined would actually work in a song. Ches really was a genius, a master wordsmith, a—Chaucer-Hemingway-Emerson-Shakespeare. The text blurred for a moment, appeared to vibrate off the page, and Glam blinked quickly to clear his vision. Fuck it. Reading was too hard right now, so he looked at Ches instead. Which was, in all honesty, infinitely more enjoyable. "Are you gonna stay down there all day or what? You're supposed to be taking this seriously." "Objects in motion stay in motion; objects at rest stay at rest," came the cryptic reply from Ches. He waggled a finger in Glam's direction. "And what do you think I've been doing this whole time? I think the words you're looking for are thank you." His hand tumbled down his front in a crude mimicry of a bow. Glam couldn't argue with that. At first, he'd been worried they wouldn't have a very productive practice. Ches's attention span had been all over the place, either entirely absent or running at a hundred miles a minute. Himself, he had only managed to get in a few clean playthroughs before his fingers tingled too much to continue. His stomach felt funny too, like he was maybe hungry, maybe going to be sick. And it was getting harder and harder to focus on what he was supposed to be doing. His attention kept being drawn back to the biggest distraction—or attraction—in the room. Ches had rolled onto his stomach, a pillow tucked under his chin as he gazed up at Glam with a look that had Glam's heart doing cartwheels. With his feet kicked up in the air behind him, toes rubbing playfully against one another, and top rucked up to his ribs to reveal tawny skin, he looked an awful lot like a girl, Glam thought. Albeit a girl with hairy shins. "Thankssss," Ches whistled through his tooth gap. "No one's ever compared me to a girl before." Shit, did I just say that out loud? "Yeah, you kinda did, Glam." "Sorry." The word oozed like molasses out of Glam's mouth, his tongue suddenly thick and sluggish. He licked around his gums. For having nibbled on so much candy, everything tasted like ash. "Don't be. You weren't exactly supposed to see me like this in the first place. But hey." Ches shrugged. "Things don't always go according to plan." He got up onto his hands and knees, gyrating his body in small circles. So weird. "And who was supposed to see it?" Against his best efforts, a series of unwelcome images of Lordy sprang to his mind again. Of Lordy pushing drinks into Ches's hand backstage after their last concert, their fingers brushing. Of Lordy too liberal with his touches, pats on the shoulder that lingered, a hand coming to rest on Ches's lower back. Glam never heard Ches's reply because he was too busy imagining what would have happened if Lordy had shown up here today instead of himself. Suddenly overwarm, Glam shrugged off his vest and pulled at the collar of his shirt. Charring-heat-embers-scorching. It really wasn't fair. The two of them had been raised in the lap of luxury, yet they'd turned out so differently. Glam, this bungling, stunted thing. He didn't even have the guts to say what he—crave-heart-excitement-starving—really wanted. But Lordy? Lordy thrived. His smug attitude, as aggravating as it could be, served him well. He walked around like someone who knew his own self-worth and had no qualms with reaching out and taking whatever he wanted, even—clepto-hoard-embezzle-steal—when it wasn't his to take. Glam flexed his hands, his fingers going numb at the tips. He could never be like that. It wasn't his place to— They were too different— He didn't deserve it— Waves of vertigo lapped at his balance, even though he was sitting in place, and small tremors had begun to creep down his arm. The pencil fell free from his fingers. Glam put a shaking hand to his forehead as goosebumps swept up the back of his neck and over his scalp. Oh my god, had he caught whatever Ches had? "What?" Ches asked from somewhere far away. "I said I don't feel so good." The angry twist in his gut was quickly growing into full-blown nausea. "Mmmmaybe shouldn't have had so...much...candy." The world tilted violently, and the strength went out of his arms. As if in slow motion, he melted down onto the table, his head—suddenly weighing roughly a thousand pounds—coming to rest on the linoleum surface. Nystagmus rattled his vision as he stared at the opposite wall where the wallpaper pattern began to shift and bulge as though a living thing were trapped behind it. Okay, something was definitely wrong. "Ches," he gritted out between clenched teeth. "What's. Happening. To me?" "Hoooly shit." Ches's voice was now right next to him. Because he was right next to him, reaching over to grab the candy wrapper from the table, mouth hanging open. "Glam?" he asked carefully. "How many of these did you take?" That didn't sound good. Oh, boy. Now he had to do math? "Um, five? Six? Look, I'm sorry I ate them without asking." Glam still couldn't seem to find the energy to lift his cheek from the table, resigned to looking up Ches's nose from this angle. Just the thought of moving was somehow paralyzing. "They were just lying there, and you already eat enough crap food as it is, and—" "Hooooly shit." Now that really didn't sound good. They looked at each other. Had Ches's eyes always been so dark? It was impossible to see where his pupils ended and his irises began. And for that matter, had he always emitted rays of iridescent light? It was very pretty. There was the slightest twitch at the corner of Ches's mouth, a tiny crack in the facade, and then Ches completely lost it. He doubled over in a fit of laughter, mimicking Glam's own compromised position. Glam couldn't help but laugh along with him, and soon the table had two wildly cackling boys sprawled across it. The laughter didn't so much bubble up Glam's throat as charge full-steam ahead like a runaway freight train. "W-w-what's so funny?" There were tears streaming down his cheeks. After another minute of giggles and false starts, Ches finally managed: "I don't know how else to tell you, Glam. You're about to go on one hell of a trip." Trip? But they were doing just fine here. Sure, he felt sort of like shit and the walls were breathing, but everything was really getting too fucking hilarious to leave now. He didn't want to go anywhere. "My guy said you're only supposed to take one of these." Ches was dragging his hands over his face, pinching and smooshing his cheeks like a kid with playdough. "And you just helped yourself to a heroic dose." "Ches. Why do you keep saying...all this stuff...I don't understand?" Ches turned his head and lay his cheek flat on the table so that he could look Glam straight in the eyes. That was also super nice. He was close enough to reach out and touch, too, if Glam were in a reaching-out-and-touching kind of mood. But again—moving, bad. Then he gave Glam the most brilliant, charming, bewitching, pitying smile he'd ever seen. "That was acid, man." Okay, maybe things weren't so funny anymore. "Oh." The pieces fell into place with all the finesse of a gorilla hammering square pigs into sound holes with a mallet. Words like illegal substance and psychedelic lit up in marquee lights in his head followed by hallucinogenic. "Oh," Glam repeated, sharper this time. "Holy shit." "Yeah. Like I said." Ches hummed dreamily, blinking his six eyes at Glam, while feathered wings framed his face. He looked like an angel. He looked fucking terrifying. "But I think—yeah, I think it'll be okay." "What?" Glam keened like a wounded animal. "Ches, how can you even say that whe—" "Ut-tut-tut." Ches pressed a benevolent finger to Glam's lips. "Set and setting, my friend. Set and setting. It's important you stay cool about this. You don't wanna be tripping balls with any negative vibes. You're gonna be just fine. Don't worry. Now, I know they say not to trip-sit anyone when you're already high. But for you—" He leaned forward and pecked a kiss on the tip of Glam's nose. "—I think I can make an exception. I mean, you trust me, right?" Glam could only stare cross-eyed, the after-image of Ches's incoming lips playing on loop a few more times before his brain finally caught up. "T-trust you?" "Close enough. You're lucky you're tripping with a pro." Ches ruffled his hair before straightening, leaving Glam a million miles away. "First things first, let's get you a little more comfortable. Comfort is one of the most important parts of any trip." "But, Ches, I can hardly—it hurts to move." "Sorry, I know this one's got a bit of a body load to it," he said, by way of explanation. As though that explained anything. Then, in an impressive show of coordination—impressive to Glam, at least, seeing as he could barely string two coherent—crocodile-hickies-earmuffs-spaghetti—thoughts together—he took Glam by the arms and began to guide him slowly down from the stool onto the nest of pillows. "C'mon, little zombie, down here." As if Glam had any say in the matter. His limbs were liquefying into soup with every passing second. And had he just aged 20 years? His back ached with a kind of bone-deep stiffness that was reminiscent of the flu. The moment he reached the floor, however, his roiling stomach instantly settled, having mercifully decided not to upchuck its contents, and he collapsed onto his side with a groan. He never thought he'd be so grateful to be on the floor of all places, and any worries he'd had about things like sanitation and cleanliness were dissipating like fluff in the breeze. His eyes slid shut, following the trajectory of the world that sat at a stubborn 45-degree angle. Everything sliding off. "I want to get off this ride," he croaked miserably into the pillow. "You're going to be fine," he could hear Ches say next to him, but he sounded so far away, the words settling over him like twilight. He tried to grasp at them. But you can't grasp twilight. He was slipping. You can only— F        a              l                  l………………… …………………

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The There darkness were was grisly filled images with among fireworks them. Pinpoints of light Of disemboweled rats bursting in geometric patterns etched in thick, neon outlines a thousand times over, Of broken, fleshy things forming archways and corridors that had once been living that stretched off for infinity but now lay shredded, in twisted, every direction mangled. before contracting down Skulls bleached white to a ball and landscapes doused in hardened candle wax that could fit in his hands, death in every cruel iteration cradled with care. of Mother Nature's indifference. Out and in, It should have been horrifying, out and in. revolting. An eon passed before Instead, he realized that the void was following he watched the dead menagerie with equal indifference, the rhythm of his breathing. awash in a benevolent understanding This had never been just a barren space, that death was not the end. but the very expression of himself, Life was not the beginning. designating the boundaries of his ego It was only a temporary waystation, that took up so while the physical ended, its own small corner its purpose complete, in the universe. the soul was allowed to continue on unscathed. In this other plane, he was only as big as his breath. To witness death and feel no fear at all. Only as big as his breath. To feel no fear at all. He marveled at this. He marveled at this. Chaos in its purest form razed through him, unrelenting and untameable, for what seemed like several lifetimes. He was a scrap of jetsam adrift in a tumultuous sea. Bombarded by images that were as substantial as steam, to be inhaled and released but never held. Intangible. And they came at a furious pace, as though there was too little time to absorb them all. His mind was an overfilled teacup, spilling over to soak into the fabric of the cosmos, too small and too helpless to resist. And loving every moment of it. He was being stretched, dismantled, picked apart, his sense of self—Sebastian, violinist, son || Glam, guitarist, friend—shattering into the shards of a broken mirror. Undone, wiped clean. When the facets of his identity came together again, they reflected the ineffable presence that he sensed was sharing this space with him: The conductor behind the universe's symphony. With his id lying forgotten on earth, he could at last hear its song. It pulsed at his center, glowing brighter with each beat of his heart, each intake of breath. It flooded his veins, sweetened his blood, and set fire to his soul. From one moment to the next, his heart was seized by its message. And it was stunning. This was what humanity had been searching for, he realized. This was what battles were fought over, what artists wrote music for; poets, their poetry. This was what the world's philosophers had discoursed for millennia. What Glam had been missing all his life. The answer to life's great purpose, overwhelming in its irrefutable simplicity: Love. Love. Love. Love… With its rhythmic chant in his ear—he crosses over. Everything is steeped in love. "Everything is spinning," he says instead. But of course it's not true, because when he opens his eyes, he's still flat on his back on the floor of the Bellegardes' converted bus. The ceiling is still breathing with him, but there's no more terror. It's an old friend now. Nothing can scare him anymore, and he wonders why he's always been afraid, why he's wasted so much time being afraid, when there is absolutely nothing wrong. "It'll pass," Ches says next to him. Their arms are touching where they lie side by side. This is indescribably wonderful. Glam is reminded that he has a body, and he takes a moment to give it a cursory once-over. Everything appears to be in working order, even if the signals to his fingers get lost en route. They twitch and can't grab anything. Which is fine by him. The nausea is at least gone, the remnants of it sitting like a ball of wooly yarn in his stomach. It's numb, he realizes vaguely. He never knew organs could go numb. There's music playing, something put on the turntable by Ches in his infinite consideration and care, and it flutters out from the speakers in ribbons. They wrap around him, and he explores the melody from behind the notes, traversing the lines of music like a tightrope walker, the way it was meant to be experienced. "I hope you're enjoying yourself," Ches says, and he rolls towards him so that more of him is touching. His breath licks at Glam's neck. Glam only hums in reply, and suddenly it's very easy to move, because he really, really wants to. He lifts an arm and wraps it around Ches, pulls him closer. This takes so little effort. Why hasn't he done it before? Ches comes willingly into his embrace, until he's snug along his side, an arm across Glam's chest, head tucked beneath Glam's chin. Weight, pressure, warmth. So much warmth. If Glam felt alive with sensation while suspended in that void, it is now a hundred times richer to be here, touching Ches. It's hard to imagine there was ever a time when they weren't this close. Their chests meet with every breath, perfectly in sync. As one. As it should be. He takes a deep breath and everything smells like Ches, and it's— "Just fantastic," Glam sighs out. "Mm, isn't it?" Ches's fingers have been idling just beneath Glam's collarbone, drawing mysterious little runes through his shirt. Glam takes those fingers in his hand and brings them to his lips without thinking. Just runs them over his bottom lip as he asks, "Do you do this often?" "I won't be anymore, I guess, now that you've downed like half my stash in one sitting." "I really didn't mean to—" A playful pinch of his cheek lets him know all is forgiven. "But to answer your question, I like to do it once a month or so." Ches ducks his head to giggle into his chest. "Like my own personal period." They both have a good laugh at this. "I mean," Ches continues when he's recovered. "It's good to be reminded every so often. About all this." His hand gestures through the air. "Life can get so ugly sometimes, you forget what's really happening behind the scenes." "Yeah," Glam answers, starting to understand. How marvelous that they are sharing this, he thinks. Travelers together on a cosmic journey. He kisses Ches's fingertips, loses himself in every sensation. "I'm glad you forgot about rehearsal today." "Why? You wouldn't have come by otherwise?" It stings a little to hear the truth spelled out like that so bluntly. "I guess not." He takes Ches's silence as an invitation to continue. There's no judgment here, and the words flow easily. "I always figure I'd get in your way or something." "You'd never be in my way. You know that." Ches nuzzles closer. "I'm sorry I don't come by more often. It's been so long since we've really hung out, y'know? I was worried things would be different." "What we've got will never change." Glam's heart is an open wound and it bleeds for Ches. "Will it always be this beautiful?" "Always. Even when you can't see it. You just gotta remember that we're—" He sighs, and Glam can see his smile without even looking. "We're all connected." In another time, in another reality, Glam would've laughed at Ches's sappiness. But he can only agree, because it is so plainly, unquestioningly true. The seed of Ches's words takes root within him and blooms like a flower. It swells impossibly large and Glam finds himself overflowing with love. "Do you feel it, Glam?" He does. He teems with it, so much so that his chest aches. There is more than enough to spare for everyone, for the whole world, for anyone he's ever known or will know—even those who have hurt him in the past. All of his walls are down, reduced to dust, and with their departure, half-buried memories are brought out into the light. For once, he has the courage to face them unafraid. Nothing can scare him. The anger that once burned at his father's abuses sputters and dies, takes on a new light, hatred becoming healing, toughness becoming tenderness, and malice becoming mercy. Love used to mean weakness, but here there is only strength in vulnerability. In forgiving. He next forgives his mother, his sister, even Roft. For the first time in his life, he sees them for the simple, frightened things they are; their spitefulness, an expression of self-preservation that Glam knows so well only because he has seen it in himself all too often. They were only afraid because they did not know. No longer just characters in the background of his life's story, Glam understands on a fundamental level that he is as much a part of each and every one of them as they are of him. He loves them unconditionally, with an intensity he didn't know himself capable of before. And if they are worthy of his love, then maybe... He mulls over this next thought, piecing it together. Maybe he is worthy of it too. There is so much potential in this, for a moment he can't breathe. "I love you," he says aloud. And this is true. This has always been true. "Thanks, man. I love you too." "No, I mean—it's not just because of this." He tries to sound serious when he says it; Ches needs to understand. There's no time for mistakes, for pretending, for missed opportunities. Life is too short for regrets. "I really do." "So do I." The words bless him. Break him. Because there can be no beauty without ugliness, no joy without pain. And the honesty of Ches's confession reminds Glam of all the wrongs he's ever done to him. "And I was an asshole to you. Such a fucking asshole." Suddenly his throat is locked in a vise. He's choking on his words, but he grinds them out anyway. "I'm so sorry." "Glam, what are you talking about?" Ches giggles tinkling glass. Glam's vision swims, but when he reaches up, expecting tears, his fingers come away dry. Moisture seeps from every pore, and he's melting. He dips a fingertip into the corner of one eye to loosen the tears he knows are there. They cling like mercury. "When we first met on the way to the conservatory, the day of the entrance exam. By the dumpster. You were just minding your own business when I showed up and—" "The dumpster?" Ches asks. How could Ches have forgotten? Like it wasn't the biggest day of Glam's life. The exam, the record, the big bang. The end of an era. With Ches the catalyst who had put it all in motion. "I tried to get away from you as soon as I could, but you followed me out of the alleyway. You were just being friendly, and I—" A sob heaves in his chest, and Ches's head bobs with it like a buoy on the waves. "I treated you like you were nothing. Like you were...trashshshshshhhh." The word rattles out like a rusty saw cleaving through metal. "Hey, hey. It's okay." Glam shakes his head from side to side, and the world starts to disintegrate. The chaos of the trip is rising like the impending tide, sloshing at the shores of his mind. Threatening to take him away again. Please let there be enough time for this. But you're not trash. You're a treasure. The pressure on his heart lifts as Ches rouses himself up, arms on either side of Glam's chest. If he's trying to look at Glam, he won't be able to because his head is hanging down at a funny angle. And Glam can see his collarbone through the gaping scoop of his top. "I didn't even ask you your name." He reaches up on automatic and slips his hands beneath Ches's shirt from behind. His fingers slide along the back of Ches's ribs and up to curl over his shoulders. Pulls him down—don't go—against his chest. The lines of their bodies slot together like puzzle pieces. "My name?" Ches exhales the words into his mouth, and he is the air Glam breathes. "My name is—" But he's already fallen through. Is gone.

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Beneath the atom-thin veneer, Glam tumbles back into the nebula where he is but a suggestion of himself. Inchoate. He is at the mercy of whatever this experience wants to show him. A barrage of life's truths accosts him like a gravity roll, rapping on his head again and again: This is love, this is hurt, this is what it means to be vulnerable, this is what comes next. And it's all so simple, he is awed by the peace that comes with knowing that there is so much more to the world than he originally thought. This trapdoor. This backstage pass to the divine. This space where love is the language of all things. In the deepest throes of it, he swears he'll remember. He will never forget this, not after the universe has splayed out its secrets to him, bellies up, like so many overturned beetles. Only, he won't remember. After all, there's a reason why secrets are called "secrets." He will only recall scraps of it, while the rest conceals itself again. Until then, however, he basks in its glory, alternating between these two planes as easily as breathing. Exhales. Revisits the earthworm's view, where he is unfinished. Inhales. Floats to the surface, back where warm lips meet his and hands find purchase in new and exciting ways. Exhales. Is stardust. Inhales. Ascends to heaven. There is someone else here inside this otherness. The being makes itself known with all the grace and radiance of the sunrise after a long night. He isn't alone. He never has been. And the being is so warm and kind, playful yet firm in its guidance. Like a patient mother with her stumbling child. He wants to see Her. Glam is guided by Ches's lips, lifting and repositioning himself until his back is braced against something solid. The headboard. He reaches for Ches, crushes them together, impossibly close. Ches climbs onto his lap. They are becoming one. He seeks Her out, crosses miles for millennia, even though things like distance and time are just convenient words in such a state of altered consciousness. The laws of reality don't apply here. To want to know something is as good as knowing it. To want to be somewhere or with someone is as good as already being there within their embrace. He has only to recognize it. When he finally does, She is there. Right in front of him. Ches's name is in his throat, on his lips. It is all he can say. Again and again. She comes to him as a shape. An S. A light. A here. Sublime. He is with Her. In Her. Of Her. And She is within him, as She has always been. The gravity of every small gesture, every tender word, is felt a thousand-fold. Without self, he is free to meld with this supreme being, the Almighty, the Creator. God. Because what else is God than love incarnate? There was a time when the title would have scared him—the concept sullied by years of rigid Catholic teachings. God was painted as something cold and vengeful. But God is more magnificent than anything he ever thought possible. A grand and all-encompassing splendor. He slips inside, lets himself become a part of love. You have nothing to fear, She tells him. They move in unison. You can do no wrong, She shows him. He touches and warms the life in his hands. And he is warmed in turn. You are loved, She teaches him. "Ches." His voice cracks. There is too much to hold inside, and Glam is brimming with it. Is about to shatter to pieces. "Hold me." "I'm here." And there is only…

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I'm bawling into Ches's chest when it's over. The sob is loud, bone-rattling, and my shoulders heave with the force of it. There's snot running down my nose. But I don't care. I just cling to Ches like I'll lose him otherwise, my fingers digging into his back and leaving scratches that I won't see until later. His crop-top is gone, but he's still wearing that ridiculous, wonderful skirt. I love everything about him, his insanity and genius, his every odd idiosyncrasy, because there is no exquisite beauty without strangeness in proportion. I would laugh if I weren't dying. Ches is doing his best to console me. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He kisses my forehead, my cheeks, tries to wipe away my tears, but only gets his hands wet. Just like mine when I'd touched him. He hasn't caught his breath yet, and his thighs shake where they're straddling my hips. "I thought you wanted this." "I did! I do!" I try to say, but it just comes out as unintelligible blubbering. I hold onto him tighter. "It's not that!" Of course it could never be what we just shared. It's just… "It's just so beautiful!" Another sob drowns out my words. With the dam broken, I push on. I'm not even sure I'm being understood, but it's too important not to at least try. Someone else has to know this. I can't be the only one. "What is, Glam?" "God's love!" I blurt out. I expect Ches to act surprised by this—after all, it's not something I've ever said before—but he just looks at me with an amused kind of understanding. So he must have seen Her too. My face is all scrunched up, sniveling like a kid who's dropped his ice cream cone instead of having just met God. I wail, "It's so, so beautiful!" Curled over, Ches is stroking my back, like that's what I need, when what I really need is to go back to Her. She told me I could return anytime I wanted. "And I can't believe that I ever forgot it! How could I forget something so beautiful?" It's getting harder to breathe now, especially when my throat is choked with tears, a muscle locks my jaw shut, and there's a tinny whine growing in my ears. Now I'm certain I'm dying. "You're not dying," Ches reassures me. But the tide is back again, pulling me under. I try to resist this time. I want to tell Ches more befor

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Back into the fray. You are tumbling, flailing, meeting countless souls, connecting with them all, a grain of sand on the beach. God is the ocean. Out there. You want to cast yourself into Her again; you can only curl into yourself instead. Waves come and go, surf to seafoam, back to waves. Back to water. Supereons pass. Enough. The party has gone on for so long, and you are exhausted, bone-tired. Can do little more than lie there and let it sweep over you. It picks you up and prods you along, inviting you to join the fun, on and on and on. For infinity. Part of you wants to continue, is already missing this before it's even over. The other part of you wants to shut it all down. It's just so draining. Wearing on the body, explosive on the mind. And you're running out of fuel. Steady...steady now… Eventually, the lightshow begins to move on without you. It is separating from you, leaving you behind, and you can see it growing smaller in the distance. None of this is really happening, you say to yourself. And it feels sacrilegious to admit. This is the first time in forever that you have had the ability to reflect on the experience objectively. Just putting the thought into words proves that you are rebuilding your ego brick by brick. I'm just hallucinating. Another brick falls into place. I took acid and got high. The world seems to groan with effort as it rights itself like a capsized ship. Once settled, it provides you a solid up and a down. Back in the third dimension, you are more stable, but in doing so, you lose a degree of freedom. You mourn its leave with only a small amount of regret. Shipwrecked men will kiss land, they are so grateful. Glam blinks his eyes open. He's lying on his side, his nose an inch from the carpet where he can make out every thread of every fiber in crystal-clear high definition. A short distance away, a continent away, is Ches. He's lying right across from Glam, mirroring his pose to a T, hands curled limply on the floor while he gazes at him through half-lidded eyes. His smile is the one solid thing in a world that has gone blurry. "Come down. Come down," he keeps saying, but it could just as easily be "calm down." Neither makes sense to Glam, though, because he's already doing both, perfectly cozy here in their nest. Next to his favorite person in the world. He can't tell who reaches out first, but their fingers meet in the space between them. Entwine. The outline of their flesh shimmers where they touch. How precious is this moment, Glam thinks, believing there will never be another like it. Knowing there will be countless more. With every passing minute, his thoughts grow steadier, more concrete. They have a beginning. They have a middle. They had an end. Glam's eyes slid shut, and this time, only quiet darkness greeted him.

***

It was night out by the time Glam opened his eyes again. Everything around him was still cast in varying shades of red, the only available light coming from the strings of fairy lights festooned about the room. They shone like stars. A gentle breeze from an open window fluttered the curtains and ruffled stray sheets of paper. He roused himself from the floor and put a hand to his head. It felt like something was still clamping down on his brain, and fireworks were going off behind his closed eyelids. He gave a grunt of discomfort. "Welcome back," Ches's voice came from the kitchenette where he was leaning casually against the counter. There was a styrofoam clamshell container opened in front of him, where a half-finished burger and a serving of fries sat on wax paper. He picked up a ketchup-tipped fry as he asked, "How're you feeling?" The smell of salt and vegetable oil had Glam's stomach grumbling. When was the last time he'd eaten? He'd kill for gourmet. He'd settle for takeout. "I'm—I'm really looking forward to food." "You mean you're hungry." Ches popped the fry into his mouth before picking up his meal along with a matching container and carrying them to the table. "Right," Glam answered dumbly, getting to his feet. He stepped gingerly, afraid he might topple over at any moment. Queasiness sucker punched him in the gut, and he plopped onto the stool, gripping the table for balance. "You went out? I mean, to get the—the, uh—" "Yeah, while you were sleeping. Sorry it's cold." It didn't matter that it was cold; it smelled incredible. Glam had barely gotten out a proper "thank you" before he was tearing off the wrapper and tucking into his meal with gusto. It had to have been the world's most delicious burger, the burger to end all burgers. Fluffy bread roll, crunchy pickles, sweet ketchup, juicy meat—the medley of sensations only added to his enjoyment. He moaned with pleasure. "That good, huh?" Glam nodded, lost in his blissful reverie. As he chewed, his eyes wandered to the whiteboard hanging behind Ches's head. A new message had been written there: I am that which seeks to know the compassion of the goddess within. Elaborate vines and flowers done in colorful marker encircled the words. Glam squinted. "Did I write that?" Ches nodded, looking over to admire Glam's handiwork. "Yeah, like three hours ago," he said around a mouthful of food. "Never took you for a poet, but I gotta say, considering how today went, it's pretty fitting." A reflexive blush of embarrassment heated Glam's cheeks, and he looked down at his meal, churning the phrase over and over again in his mind. What would've driven him to write that? And how had he even managed to reach the whiteboard in the first place? The message must've meant something important, but he couldn't figure out what. Scanning his mind now was like navigating a field pockmarked with bomb blasts: evidence of some savage battle could be read in the damaged terrain, but the hows and whys were a mystery. All that was left was a sharp feeling of loss. They didn't speak again until after they'd finished eating. Ches cleared away the trash while Glam remained at the table, his head resting in his hands. He was obviously out of the trip, but the trip wasn't out of him. Not entirely. He could still feel it pinwheeling in a corner of his mind. If he concentrated on it hard enough, he could almost imagine it swelling to the surface again as if summoned. Lingering tendrils of it crept up from the depths to dig into his brain with cloying fractals. Once Ches was seated across from him again, Glam finally asked, "Was any of that real?" He hadn't meant to sound so heartbroken, but it was hard not to feel as though he really had lost something precious. Nothing glittered the way it used to. "It's real, all right." He shook his head. "But I don't—I can't remember it anymore." There'd been something about love, about forgiveness, about being able to go back. But to where? Ches rested his elbows on the table, scratching a hand across his scalp so that his hair stood up in wild tufts. "Trust me, Glam, it's always there." He slid his hand horizontally through the air. "Just beneath the surface. No way you'll remember it all—s'way too much to. But one thing's for sure. It never leaves you quite the same again." Now there was a scary thought. He did still feel off, but he couldn't put his finger on why exactly. It was like the gears weren't quite lining up. Perhaps he'd fried his brain beyond repair just like he'd heard about in the PSAs. He would end up a neurotic mess, living under a bridge and addicted to needles. The town junkie moms warned their children they'd end up as if they didn't keep on the straight and narrow. He held his hands in front of his face, inspecting his fingers. They didn't shake like a junkie's. In fact, they looked perfectly normal. Through the space between his fingers, he could see Ches watching him, amused. "LSD can be one hell of a drug. But seeing as you came out the other end of it in one piece, it's safe to say you had a good trip." With his patented green jacket back on, Ches looked like his old self again. There was still that goofy smile, lilting drawl, and half-lidded gaze... It was then Glam noticed something was missing. "What happened to your skirt?" Ches blinked at him, before looking pointedly down Glam's front. "I think it's safe to say it's your skirt now." Glam followed his gaze. Sure enough, he was wearing it, scandalously short hem and all. He shifted in place, goosebumps rising where his bare thighs rubbed against each other. "I don't remember doing this either." This whole "not remembering" thing was starting to get a little disconcerting. "Yeah, you were on this whole female energy kick," Ches said with a flourish of his hand. "Seemed like you were really onto something there." "Oh, Jesus." Glam slouched down in his seat and hid his face in his hands. "Close. Pretty sure you said it was God." God? Of all the ridiculous— You are loved. The voice materialized from somewhere inside him, overriding old patterns of thought. He couldn't be sure he'd even gotten the words right, but for a moment, he felt it again—that sense of awe and transcendence, of having seen something that shouldn't normally be seen—and his mind went quiet as though trying to bring the message into focus. It hovered like a vision just at the edge of his periphery. He whipped his head to the side as if to follow, but he only found himself coming face to face with his own reflection in the windowpane. His hands dropped to the table as he stared for a while, unable to shake the bizarre feeling that he was seeing himself for the first time. Or perhaps just with fresh eyes. Something in his expression must've given him away, because Ches reached out and laid his hand on Glam's right arm. "See?" he said. "It doesn't completely leave you the same." Looking down, he saw Ches's fingers resting where his wristband usually was. When and how he'd lost it was beyond him; it wasn't something he ever took off if he could help it. Without the wristband, his scars were fully exposed, laid bare and raw, and Ches was gently turning over Glam's wrist so that his fingers could trace the raised lines of flesh there, and Glam was— Glam was perfectly all right with this. That was unexpected. Where he would normally feel humiliation mixed with self-loathing at the sight of his scars, reminders of the darkest time of his life and all the fears that came with it, he felt nothing at all. The scars were just another part of him, evidence of a life lived with its share of challenges, but no more shameful for it. If anything, they were proof of his own resilience. When he looked at them now, he could only see the beauty in them. "What else has changed?" Glam's mouth had gone dry, and his heart began to pound as he watched with helpless wonder the way Ches's fingers smoothed down his wrist and across his palm. Skin tingled where he was caressed so intimately. There was something oddly familiar about this, as though they'd done it countless times before. And he did not even deign to question the yearning that drummed against his ribs when their fingers entwined. "You tell me," Ches said, and he was looking at Glam as though they shared some secret Glam still hadn't caught on to. Glam's eyes drifted across Ches's face, down to his bared collar where he wore a necklace of love bites. A memory flashed to life in his mind, of his tongue tracing that same trail, of skin sliding against skin, of shaking thighs and a hot, wet tightness—and it was secret no more. "Oh, my god." "Uh-huh." "Y-you." "Uh-huh." Ches leaned across the table. "And me—" Glam was certain his cheeks were bright red, but Ches didn't seem to mind as he drifted in closer and closer still. His heart was hammering a mile a minute, and the thrill of the trip came back for an encore as the outline of Ches's smile pressed against his lips as he finished for him: "We." They kissed. It was short and sweet, so very sweet, and for a moment Glam forgot that it was in fact not the first time they had done this. What should have been shocking only felt like coming home. "I miss you," he said when they separated. Once started, he couldn't stop, the words and emotions tumbling out like a pressure valve released. "I miss you and—and I want us to be together. Like we used to be." "Like we used to be?" Ches canted his head with a grin. "No," Glam was quick to correct himself. "More than that. I want to be with you. Like this." He looked at their hands which were still linked. "Like—" Like we're meant to be. It wasn't something he'd have ever entertained, but the thought sat stubbornly front and center in his brain. It refused to leave. Ches hung his head, shaking it back and forth. "Glam," he started. Glam's heart sank at the regretful tone. "It's about damn time you said something!" Ches beamed, reeling him in again for another kiss, even as Glam was left sputtering as he tried to recover from whiplash. "What?" He managed to squeeze out beneath the shower of affection. "But I thought you were already—I mean, you and the groupies." He cringed. "And Lordy?" "Lordy?" Ches furrowed his brow. "You thought… Oh my god, dude!" He spun on his stool and grabbed a sheaf of papers from the counter. They'd gotten a little banged up over the course of the evening and now sported a few extra artistic embellishments in pencil, but Glam recognized them as the packet he'd delivered earlier that day. "It's thanks to Lordy you're even here! Look!" He flipped it open to the last page where there was nothing but a sticky-note slapped in the center. You're welcome, it read in what was instantly recognizable as Lordy's handwriting. "Guess he got tired of the will-they-won't-they shtick. He said he was gonna pull something, but I didn't think it'd look like this. Clever prick." "Lordy...planned this?" "Yeah, he had a feeling you and me had some unsettled business." Ches looked between Glam and the note, scratching at his cheek. "Not a lot gets by him unnoticed. Then again, you make it sorta obvious. I wasn't sure if you were ever gonna be ready to take the next step with me." Glam was still busy putting the pieces together. If Lordy knew, then... "So today's rehearsal wasn't real?" "Fuck no," Ches said with a pout. "You honestly think I'd forget something as important as that? I may drop acid on occasion, but I still run a tight ship around here." He made as if to point to his whiteboard but gave up when he remembered that his entire schedule had been replaced by poetry about goddesses and compassion. So that's why Glam had been sent to check on Ches. Lordy—the very same Lordy that he'd worried was getting too close to Ches and who had tied his stomach in knots just that morning—had actually been his wingman all this time. If he were here at this moment, Glam would've hugged him. But just how much of today had been orchestrated? Glam pressed his lips together. "What about the, you know..." "What?" Ches stared at him blankly. "Oh, you mean this?" From his front jacket pocket, he took out a crumpled foil wrapper. Great things really do come in small packages. He rolled the packet of remaining candies between his fingers as he answered. "Nah. That was just—" A shrug. "I dunno, maybe one of those meant to be things." Glam eyed the candy with newfound respect. He didn't know whether he had it in him to ever go through something like that again, but he couldn't deny that he had learned from the experience. The drug had given him a vantage point to see the world for the collection of color halftones that it was. Seen from a distance, the dots overlapped one another to form the seamless, normal reality of every day. But with his consciousness skewed, the dots skewed with him, and he had been allowed to slip into the spaces between. It was there that he had gained perspective. Life was made up of a certain level of synchronicity, and Glam had to wonder whether there really was no such thing as mere coincidences at all. Today could have turned out very differently had any one thing not happened the way it did. Like a delicate series of notes in a song. What if Lordy hadn't been as observant or generous? If Glam had decided not to show up after the sham rehearsal? If Ches hadn't left out that roll of candy, or if Glam hadn't found it? Each step in the sequence relied so heavily on the one before it, guiding him to this one moment—precisely where he was meant to be, here by Ches's side and nowhere else. It was hard to pinpoint when fate had first been set into motion, and as he thought of it now, he had to wonder just how far back it went: A formation of a band. A dark and stormy night. A summer to remember. A lesson in a park. A stolen guitar. A mix-up. A model city. A lightbulb. Looking into Ches's eyes now, he could see the fairy lights reflected there in the depths of his pupils. They glittered like stars. There was a time once, months ago, in another life, when he'd dreamt by starlight. They both had. He'd been afraid that following one dream meant he'd had to put another on hold. But now, it felt like he'd just been given another chance. Maybe this time, they'd do it right. "So? What now, Glam?” It sounded like a question, but Glam heard the invitation. "So?” He echoed back. "When can I move in?"