| |
When Nick headed out on his walk of shame from Spence’s room, he’d left the other man awake and writing. Spence had waved him off, refusing offers to have anything brought back from breakfast. Their vociferous fucking of the prior night, must have been very inspirational, Nick concluded as he headed first over to his own room to make himself look slightly presentable, and then to the dining area to meet Shani before her flight to New York.
“So, you’re heading to O’Hare?”
She nodded. “And you to Madison?”
“Wisconsin beckons,” Nick confirmed, dipping his breakfast sausage into his maple syrup much to Shani’s shock.
“Aren’t you going to tell me how it went with your poet friend last night?” She smirked daintily over her waffle. That had always been the terrifying thing about Shani Agarwal, she could read him like an open book. “I assumed that was where you ended up after we said goodnight. Was I wrong?”
“It was fine. Listen,” Nick made a dismissing gesture with his fork, “that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about last night. Sorry we got so off track.”
“If you say so.”
“It’s about the Apollo Awards.”
“I heard you and VAIN are neck in neck,” Shani’s smile told him all he needed to know about her thoughts on the subject. “Really, Nicky, I do wish you hadn’t given up your career in classical music.”
“I make more money this way, believe it or not.”
“I know this isn’t about the money for you.”
“It isn’t.” His hand rested on top of hers. “It’s about revenge.”
"Like getting the poodles was about revenge?"
Nick frowned, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening. His father hated dogs, and Nick had suffered his entire childhood without the unconditional love that every young boy had a right to experience. When he'd first come to America after the incident, angry, hurt and full of spite, getting a dog had been an obvious fuck you, the yappier the better. Of course he'd only intended one poodle, but it really wasn't his fault that the last three members of the litter had all instantly imprinted on him. Nick Marlowe might be an asshole, but he wasn't the kind of asshole to separate siblings.
Plus. Athos, Porthos and Aramis. What better way to represent his hatred of England in the physical form than to name his new canine companions after the most logical enemies of England: French literary heroes?
"Public revenge," Nick insisted. "The kind my father won't be able to ignore, the bastard."
“How is winning the Apollo going to stick it to your father?” Shani asked, her voice tinged with exasperation.
“The biggest musical award show in the northern hemisphere, Shani. If we take the Apollo, the world’s eyes will be upon us. I will never have a bigger, broader audience than for that acceptance speech.”
Shani’s eyes widened and her fingers clenched around Nick’s hand. “You’re not really thinking of...”
“Telling the whole story? Yes, I am. Exactly that. With your permission, of course.”
Shani was silent for a few moments, but did not let go of his hand. “It won’t bring Kunal back,” she finally said. “And it will likely destroy your father’s career.”
“That’s the whole point, Shani! He destroyed our lives! Destroying his career is the least I can do to repay him for his generosity.”
“It wasn’t all his fault,” Shani lowered her voice to a whisper. “Kunal and I were just as complicit in it. We all made choices and have paid for them. You were the only one of us who was innocent, untouched by those choices, and I’m so sorry that it hurt you so much!”
“Shani...”
“But this path you are on, it does not lead to absolution, or forgiveness! You told me yesterday that when you’re with your American boy, you can finally find peace? Why don’t you choose that instead of the path of vengeance?”
“I cannot walk away. Not after everything he’s done. Not after everything I’ve done.”
“You have punished yourself for the transgressions of others,” Shani said, shaking her head. “If this is what you feel you must do, then of course I will stand by you, as I have in the years since we lost Kunal. But if you do it, just go into it with your eyes open. Please. Promise me you’ll think about what I’ve said?”
He picked up her hand off the table and pressed it to his lips. “I promise.”
“I’m so happy I got to see you again, Nicky. Please, take care of yourself.”
“I will,” he promised her.
His mind was made up, no turning back now. The only thing that remained was to make sure Spence wrote a fucking fantastic song and then the Apollo Award would be as good as theirs. But he could still promise her to think about what she’d said. It was the least she deserved after all the crap she had put up with from him.
~~~
The bus ride to Madison was familiar to Nick, and yet strange. Familiar in the picture of Sloane Riley on the couch with her guitar plugged into a small amp, one foot tucked under her, and Nyx at her side, cross-legged with a beat up little 49 key midi controller balanced across her knees. It was their normal mode of on-the-road composition, and he'd heard the birth and death of dozens of tunes. Rarely, when something passed both of their exacting standards, they'd drag Jake in for a bassline, and Chad would drum out a rhythm on the galley table, much to the annoyance of the poodles.
Strange - in that dragging Jake in for a bassline now included Spence, perched on top of Sloane's amp in the middle of the aisle, bent over her scrawled score and nodding along as he chewed on his pencil. Every so often Sloane would stop, and they'd converse, heads together with Nyx's over the score and Spence's notebook, making adjustments. Then they'd start over again, with Spence humming faintly under his breath, fingers tapping a rhythm on his thigh over the chords of the guitar.
Normally Nick did his best to stay out of it, not caring to get invested in anything until they brought him a scratch track to put lyrics to. But "normally" didn't involve his hopes and dreams for the Apollo Awards. Or one Jordan “Spence” Spencer. Ridiculous boy.
Part of him wanted to hover, to sit himself on the back of the couch or lean over the galley booth to see exactly every move they made. But that would have certainly been overbearing, so he finally set himself in the front corner of the other couch with the poodles, doing his best to hold the squirming things still as he gave them a good brush and tried to act like he wasn't paying attention at all.
"Don't suppose I'll get to see lyrics soon?" he asked Spence during a pause, trying to sound like it didn't matter at all despite being irritatingly curious.
The adorable minx actually blushed. "Soon," he promised. "I just... I just want to make sure everything's perfect. But soon."
"Whenever," Nick replied through gritted teeth, and picked up the grooming comb again as they went back to it.
"Do we need a third verse after the middle eight? I think I can write another - "
"Nah, we're going for a chart-topper, not ‘Stairway to Heaven.’"
"Maybe another few bars here after the modulation for a strings breakdown?"
Nick raised his head at Nyx's words, unable to continue pretending he wasn't listening. "I'm sorry, what?"
The girls and Spence looked at him in unison, looking much like the poodles after getting into something they shouldn't have. Nyx smiled immediately. "Nothing to worry about, mon cher. It will all be through the magic of synthesizers."
The word made the hair on the back of Nick's neck rise, but he refused to take the bait. "Good, because I'm not recording any fucking string solos or breakdowns."
"Mmhmm!" Nyx's smile was as obvious as Sloane's eye roll. Spence opened his mouth as if to say something, then prudently closed it again.
It was none of his business, Nick tried to tell himself, glaring down at the poodles. They could do what they fucking wanted, and he'd sing it, and they'd have a hit. That was all that mattered. But the next thing he knew they were plugging in to record a scratch track, and he realized that the terrible tinny wailing that had been coming from Nyx's keyboard was actually part of it, and his temper bubbled over.
"What the actual fuck do you all think you're doing?"
From the other end of his couch, Lenore raised her head from the book she'd been reading, fingers stopping their idle caress of Porthos' newly groomed fur. "Writing a hit, I believe."
"With that fucking - that fucking wailing garbage?"
Nyx looked at him calmly - god, was that a smirk on her lips? "This so-called wailing garbage is an industry accepted string quartet effect."
"An industry of what, tone-deaf douchebags?"
"You think you can do better?" Nyx's smile was undeniably smug now, Nick noted, but he was too far gone into outrage to stop now.
"I sure as fucking hell can do better!"
"Good. Then we'll give you a scratch track and you can figure it out," Sloane declared, smirking. "If you have something good by the time we get to Portland we'll let you record it for the release."
Let him? "Don't act like you're the one doing me a fucking favor," he growled.
"I think we can all agree that the song will be best if everyone contributes to, ah, the best of their ability," Jake interjected weakly. "Yes?"
"Fuck you, Jake," Nick spat back on reflex, unintentionally echoing Sloane.
Well, at least that was something they could always agree on.
~~~
By the time they'd played Minneapolis, Spence had listened to the scratch track what seemed like a dozen times, mentally matching his words with the line of the melody that played through his tinny earbuds. By the time the show in Denver was over, Spence could sing it in his sleep. But still he held the finished lyrics close to his heart, apart from the partial draft he'd shown Sloane. Were they good enough for Nick? Why was he so nervous to show him? The worst that could happen was that Nick would want to change things, and Spence could take constructive criticism. Surely Nick would like them at least a little bit, wouldn't he?
He was over-thinking, he knew, changing words in his head back and forth, swapping them around until he could hardly remember which version it was he'd liked to begin with. The only time he felt really confident was when he was in Nick's arms, exhausted and too well-fucked to worry. He only wished he could carry that clarity with him all the time.
He woke early one morning and crept from Nick's arms to curl up in the hotel room's office chair, plugging in his headset and closing his eyes. It'll be good. It'll be a hit. It'll be everything he needs.
Halfway through the second repeat, he was startled from his reverie by the warm press of Nick's lips, his fingers tugging the earbuds from his ears. "Working already?" he murmured. "Come back to bed."
Spence whined softly. "I want to. I really, really do. I'm just worried about the song...."
"I'm sure it'll be fine," Nick replied, though his words would have been more reassuring if he hadn't been kissing a path down Spence's neck. "Come on."
"I'm serious!"
"So am I." Nick kissed away his complaint, pushing the chair across the carpet. "Besides, doesn't sex inspire you?"
"Well of course it does, but - "
"Well then, get in bed and I'll do my duty. For the good of the song, of course."
Nick's eyes were bright with good humor, and more than anything Spence wanted to give in, to lose himself in the bliss of Nick's body before they had to hit the road again. "Please," he said softly, catching Nick's hands in his. "I need it to be good. I need it to be good enough."
Nick opened his mouth as if to protest, and then stopped, expression softening. "All right, then. Plug it in."
"What?"
Nick rounded the bed to his pile of gear, extracting a violin case. "Your phone. Throw it up to the alarm clock. If you need to work at this ungodly hour of the morning I'll just have to work with you."
As Nick tightened his bowstrings, Spence fought with the urge to protest. He was painfully aware that at this point it was just stupid not to let Nick see what he'd written. But as the chords of Sloane's guitar started to play through the tinny alarm clock speaker, Nick practically paid him no heed, standing in the middle of the room with the violin tucked under his chin, eyes closed in concentration.
He'd clearly listened to the scratch track a number of times himself, Spence thought, leaning back in the chair and watching. Nick was still through the first verse, and as the tempo of the song picked up into the chorus he brought the bow across the strings, adding a singing, shining note to the composition, then another, accenting the line of the melody. Then he began to play in earnest, the violin becoming its own entity, crying sad and sweet through the instrumental before fading again to let the second verse take the stage.
A chill ran down Spence's spine. How have you never done this before? he wanted to cry. With the addition of Nick's violin, the track became so much more than a simple rock ballad. The song became a story, an anthem to love, Nick somehow sensing the emotion that Spence was trying to build and infusing it into the instrumentals. Did they even need his lyrics, with such beauty?
Nick had never looked more glorious, standing naked in the middle of the room without a care except for the music, his brows knit in concentration as the bow resonated against the strings. The whole experience was so enthralling that before Spence had even thought about lyrics he'd reached the final chorus, a beautiful, triumphant climax of sound greater than anything he could have imagined, and when Nick lowered the bow he could only stare at him in awe.
Nick's concentration softened as he lowered the violin, gaze turning to Spence. "Did that help?"
"I - ah. A little?"
His answer seemed to satisfy Nick. "I'll go through it again, then," he said, hitting the button to repeat the track.
The kindness in his voice and his smile struck Spence. If someone had asked him a month ago if the great rock god Nick Marlowe were capable of this, Spence would have laughed. But it only made the moment more poignant. He couldn't help but treasure the thought that Nick felt like he could be this way around him, lower his guard, the mask of his anger.
Then a thought crossed his mind, that he wasn't just doing it because he felt comfortable - he genuinely was this way, without his rage, and perhaps it was Spence who'd made him that way. All this softness was for Spence's benefit, even now Nick was playing for him, trying to help him be more confident in his work.
He was humming along with the intro before he could even think to second guess himself again, and then the words were coming from his lips, soft and true and finally right.
Come, my love, it’s time to explode.
I am the match and you’re the firework,
We can start a revolution,
Scream until the Earth awoke
I am the match and you’re the firework.
Nick's golden eyelashes fluttered open as Spence started to sing. He glanced over, lips turning up in a smile, then closed his eyes again. Spence felt a flood of warmth at the silent approval, and felt his voice grow stronger. He certainly wasn't a singer, but his pitch was true, and with Nick's violin singing before him he could suddenly feel every word with perfect poignancy, with all the emotion he'd wanted them to have.
Your touch might burn
But I’m already ash
Watch as I rise like the phoenix
Out of their hatred
And out of their lies
Just like the phoenix I rise.
Come, my love, we’re going to war,
I am the match and you’re the firework,
There’s no time for absolution,
No more time for shallow words.
I am the match and you’re the firework.
It wasn't a declaration of anger, railing at everyone and everything that had done Nick wrong. He'd never really wanted that, Spence realized. Because there was so much more to Nick than that. There could be so much...
Hold me, my love, seal our fate with a kiss,
We can be fireworks together,
No one will hurt you with me by your side,
No one could dare love you better.
So touch me again
For we're already ash
Watch as we rise like the phoenix.
Out of their hatred
And out of their lies
Just like the phoenix we rise.
As the energy of the climax faded into silence, Spence's confidence suddenly went with it. What if Nick hated it? What if he'd been too transparent? What if Nick resented that he was the inspiration, what if -
Silently, Nick set his violin and bow back in the case, closing the clasp with a snap. Then he moved to where Spence still sat in the office chair, tilting it back as he leaned down to claim Spence's mouth in a slow, deep kiss.
"I'm going to need you to come back to bed with me now," he murmured when Spence could breathe again.
Spence swallowed hard. "Does that mean... you liked it?"
Nick answered with another kiss. "Very much."
"And... you think you can... sing it?"
This time Nick smiled as he kissed him, pulling him out of the chair and into his arms. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I can."
~~~