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Mark’s not sure if it’s the withdrawal or the bumpy road that has him feeling so nauseous, but the stale smell of cigarettes isn’t helping. He’s finally fallen out of the honeymoon phase with road tripping, the charm of oversized vans and fast food giving way to irritable band members and desperate bids for fresh produce. His t-shirt has stains on it from the burger he ate two hours ago and he absently picks at it, flaking away dried mustard.“Hey Mark, pass me a five hour?” Yelena asks softly from the driver’s seat. Without looking Mark digs his hand into the torn paper bag next to him, grabbing one of the several five hour energy bottles at the bottom of it. They’re on the final leg of their Midwestern part of the tour, and that means long stretches of road as they pass through flat farmland. Yelena got shafted with the drive between Billings and Missoula. Mark had gotten some gorgeous photos of the painted hills in eastern Montana but otherwise the last several hours were a blur of packing, weak coffee and menthol cigarettes, Mark having traded one vice for another. The CBD they’d picked up in Fargo helped take the edge off, but sometimes the long periods of silence on the road remind him too much of things best left behind.His desires are his own, and his hair is only a little too long.“Two more hours.” Brett groans from behind Mark. There’s some rustling and the tell tale cracking of bones, unpleasant and relatable as Brett stretches. Katie and Marcus are still passed out from their long night, Katie nursing a hangover and Marcus exhausted from wrangling her. Mark curves himself around the front passenger seat to look back at them all, a deep fondness striking through the unending anxiety coating his insides.“Marky Marcus looks beat.” Brett says, and Mark snorts with sympathy.“The hazards of sobriety in the face of raging punk rock managers.” Yelena chips in, grinning wryly into the rear view mirror.“It was his turn last night. He wasn’t much help with the Cincinnati fiasco.” Mark tells them. It earns soft laughter from Yelena and a single barking chuckle from Brett, neither of which disturbs Marcus or Katie from their sleep.“Sober Mark Mach 2,” Brett starts to joke, and Mark groans.“Still not funny, still not Thing 1 and Thing 2, still dealing with your bad jokes very soberly.” There’s more laughter, because Mark doesn’t mean it and Brett never did, and Marcus is still too dead asleep to snarl out a withdrawal induced insult. They all fall into a calm once more, the road stretching endlessly flat before them. The sun is setting over Butte and Mark has no less than demanded they stop to get a few striking photos of the statue on the mountain, Our Lady of the Rockies glowing with jewel tones that Mark doesn’t quite manage to catch through the lens. Marcus wakes up twenty minutes before reaching town, looking for all the world like he’s drank more than Katie despite being 8 months sober, and he gratefully accepts a CBD chocolate from Brett. Katie is groggily aware of their location as she tugs a sweatshirt on beside Marcus, and Yelena is just barely able to keep her eyes open as she reaches the next exit.“I can take the rest of the drive.” Brett says as they pull into the gas station. “I can get us to Coeur d’Alene and still take the first shift tomorrow.” No one refutes it, and Mark passes Brett a cigarette when they get out of the car. Despite the smell of gasoline the air is fresh and Mark breathes deeply before entering the Holiday to take a piss.They spend twenty minutes there, Brett having pulled the van away from the pumps to check the tire pressure while Katie finishes up in the gas station. Yelena and Marcus are already curled together in the backseat, weakly offering the third seat to Mark. He refuses, more than happy to take front passenger and let Katie sleep off the rest of her hangover. He’s left his camera in the car. It’s rare when he can enjoy these moments for what they are, long shadows pouring down the mountainside and crickets singing faintly off the highway. The Arby’s sign across the road is backlight with street lamps and pinpricks of stars. The Holiday station is playing country music over the speakers, and Mark lets his eyes follow the fluorescent lights above the pumps.He’s still working on the rest of his half-smoked cigarette when he feels reality tilt sideways. There are a lot of leather jackets in the world and while the sight of them used to make his stomach pitch, they haven’t had that sort of effect in a while. But he knows that tear in the left sleeve of the leather jacket at gas pump number four. He remembers the hasty stitching in red thread, dim motel lights and empty KFC containers because those were the best biscuits they could find for twenty miles.He tastes sour on the back of his tongue and for a second Mark thinks the menthol’s gone bad, but Damien turns and they lock eyes.It helps a little, seeing Damien go rigid with shock. Neither of them move, although only a scant fifty feet separates them from each other. Mark breaks first, pulling a trembling drag from his cigarette. Damien looks torn but it’s in too many directions to count, too much anger and relief and pain there. Mark just feels numb, feels like a coma all over again.Damien takes a step forward and Mark’s cigarette slips from his fingers. Then the moment passes: Damien is closing the gas plug on his truck and getting into the driver’s seat. They meet eyes again, Damien staring out like his eyes might pull Mark in the way his power used to. It nearly works, Mark’s shaky resolve to stay clear pressed up tight against old memories and older pain. The red pickup pulls away.“Mark?” Katie is at his shoulder, nursing a fresh Gatorade and looking like death warmed over. “You don’t look so good.”“Like I saw a ghost?” Mark jokes, and Katie’s eyes narrow but she doesn’t press it.Mark stubs out the cigarette with his heel. It sizzles under his boot as he watches the red pickup wait at the stop light before going east on the 90. Opposite of Coeur d’Alene, away from them. Away from Mark. There’s something like disappointment settling inside him, angry and loud, demanding that Damien come back so Mark can lay into him. There’s a smaller part, aching and sad, wanting so much to see Damien smile at him and pass over greasy fast food in another shitty motel.He and Katie get back into the van, Mark settling in the front passenger seat with Brett at the wheel. They pull out onto the road, Our Lady of the Rockies behind them. Mark sees her faintly when he twists his head enough to catch the last hints of sunlight against her face.He turns to face forward.