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For some reason, at the tail end of a major tour, the band still wanted to travel together. For some reason, Izzy went along with this. The destination was some obscure tiny island in the Aegean, and the band was doing well enough to buy out an entire hotel for two weeks, the only hotel on the island. They could all laze about on the now-private beach, while Izzy got work done up at the hotel, being served food and drink all day long. An offer he couldn’t refuse. That might have been the main reason, except there was also his deep-held, well-hidden wish that he might...not be alone on the island. Only they’d barely gotten started, and stalking through fucking Charles de Gaulle airport, a ragtag of jetlagged bandmembers traipsing along behind him, was not how he would have chosen to travel. And they still had a second flight and an hours-long ferry ride to go! He scurried ahead of Lucius, dawdling by the entrance to the duty-free sprawl, and caught up with Ed. “Ed, tell me again, why are we routing through this airport?” Ed slowed before a display of wee jars of marmalade and caramel spread and flavoured mustards, and various other delicacies from random regions of France. “Stede wanted to see the bit of the Louvre they have here.” Stede had stopped before an electronic sign and was poking at its various apps. “I think we’re in the wrong terminal.” “Aww, sorry, babe,” Ed began. Stede checked his watch. “We could always—” “No!” Izzy said. “Don’t be ridiculous, go out and back through security again?” “The line wasn’t that long,” Stede protested. “Long enough,” Ed said, striding over to a wall of nougat. “Guess these’ll be all sticky and gross by the time we get to the island, huh?” “Hey, guys!” Archie called from the toy department. Half the heads in the shop swivelled in her direction. She pointed at a departures board above her head. “The flight’s delayed!” Stede’s face lit up. “Fab!” Ed picked up a box of nougat. “I’ll eat this in the security line.” Izzy glared at the strangers who were dividing stares between Archie and them. “Stupid fucking Charles de Gaulle.” It occurred to him, as the band huddled together off to the side of the list of departures—each person had had to see for themselves the ominous red shading and the notice of the three-hour delay—that he didn’t need to go along with Stede and Ed. But he didn’t fancy the chocolate shop Roach and Auntie wanted to visit, the fabrics John wanted to explore, the planespotting Frenchie and Pete wanted to do, or even the boozy lunch everyone else wanted to start in on. That’d just make his guts roil, when they finally got on board an aircraft, and he’d spew everywhere. If they’d taken a direct flight from the last tour stop in London, they’d already be boarding the ferry by now... He pretended to need a book for the flight and announced that he was headed to the newspaper kiosk. No one came with him. Half the music magazines had Blackbeard on the cover, so he flipped up the collar of his jacket and drew on his sunglasses. Not much else you could do about disguises in summertime. He spared a though for Ed and Stede, packed into the shuttle headed to the next terminal, no escape from any fan that might accost them. He picked up a French book by a new-to-him Swiss author, then scrutinised the display in the souvenir corner. No one to buy anything for; no one expecting gifts from him. Another reason he was tagging along on this so-called leisure trip—to forget, or ignore, the most recent conversation, three nights ago. Maybe he’d join the lunch crowd after all. Not for booze but, while in France, in terms of tourist kitsch anyway, he might as well sample a few local cheeses. He pulled up the group chat on his phone, and scrolled past the hundred or so messages flowing in. The crew had split up to investigate each of the different restaurant options; the reports ranged from “too posh” to “not enough drink choices”. Fang had gotten sidetracked by a nature shop. A separate notification caught his eye but he ignored it. He kept walking, past jewellery shop after jewellery shop, followed by the Hermès boutique. Each brightly lit storefront mocked him with its sparkling displays that seemed to all be made up of love hearts and engagement rings. He swerved around a corner, and his scowl bumped smack into Jim’s chest. “What’s up, hombrecito?” “Nothing. Where are we drinking?” Jim pointed off to the side, past a Swatch shop, to a fancy restaurant. “Archie’s being a pest over there, asking if they do personalised cocktails.” They grinned fondly for a second, then wiped it off and whipped back to him. “You said you weren’t going to drink.” “Oh, what does it matter?” Jim’s gaze pierced him like one of their knives. “We just got off a major tour. If there’s any time when you relax and let go, this is it. But you’re wound up tighter than a...” They waved a hand. “Something. Look at the way you’re squeezing that phone.” They snatched it out of his hand. “Hey, what—” He made a grab for it, but Jim just held it up higher. “Think you need a break.” “From what? I don’t work on my phone—” He swiped for it again. Jim skipped backward. “Social media?” “I’m not on that shite for the band, Lucius is all over it.” Jim spun about and glanced at his lock screen. “Why’ve you got notifications coming in for all these apps then? You’re following— Oh shit.” He made another grab, this time mostly to stop Jim from talking. “Give me that!” Jim waved their arm aside at the same time—and clocked him in the face. His teeth sank into their wrist. Archie’s voice rang out, off to the side somewhere. “Whoa, shit, is it bitey time?” “Archie, thank fuck,” Jim said. “Take his phone away, Izzy won’t—” Archie barrelled over—scooting past startled travellers and leaping past one kid with a rideable suitcase—swiped up Jim’s other arm, and chomped at their wrist. “Nom nom nom. Way better than lunch.” She kissed their palm and let go. “What were you saying?” Jim scowled, sighed, and divided an exasperated look between them. “Izzy needs to get out of his own head.” Before he could duck, or reach for his phone again, Archie slung an arm about his shoulders. “Let’s get on it! What’ll it be? Retail therapy?” “No. There’s nothing around here but fancy fucking engagement rings.” “Is that what the problem is?” Jim interjected. “Did you try—” “I haven’t tried shit. It’s not wanted. Drop it, yeah?” Archie looked back and forth between them. “So sitting and talking it through is out. There’s no place to sit in this airport anyway, unless we—” She and Jim locked eyes and spoke together. “The lounge!” Jim, still clutching his phone, pulled out their own phone and scrolled for a second. “Okay, there’s only one lounge in this place. Between the band and someone’s credit card—” “Stede’s,” he and Archie interrupted. “—Stede’s credit card, we qualify for access. Let’s go.” “I still don’t want to drink,” he said, as the three of them moved off to begin herding the crew. “We’ll find something for you,” Jim said, finally handing back his phone. “Maybe they make cheese boards.” And, despite himself, he perked up a bit at the prospect. But once they were all gathered in the Sky Lounge—except Ed and Stede, waiting for the shuttle back from the other terminal—the frustration swept over him again. Someone in his family had once said, “I just don’t understand your brain sometimes.” A throwaway line for them, but it’d lodged itself in there, and his mind insisted on trotting it out at inopportune moments. What was so difficult? He had love. He was ready to... What was that phrase of Ed’s? All in. He was all in. But what could you do if the other person just didn’t...care? Didn’t need you? Not that he fucking needed— He wasn’t about to get all co-dependent and shit. This was just about... All in, damn it. Emotionally. Physically. And verbally. A light in the eyes. A deep kiss. Messages throughout the day. But, fuck it. Something was wrong with his brain, wanting all these things. Or wrong with him entirely— He just wasn’t the kind of guy that got to have the Ed and Stede thing. The Jim and Olu and Archie and Zheng thing. Fuck, even the Jackie and Swede thing. What was it he’d overheard once? Olu, asking Swede about relationships, about how he made Jackie so happy. Swede going, “I put my heart, my soul, my back into it. My whole body.” Izzy wanted to do that. Seemed no one wanted to do it for him. First message in three days—still blaring at him from his notification window—and what’d it say? —Are you on the ferry yet? Nothing about the end of the tour. Nothing about coming out to the island in a few days’ time. Damn it, he’d sent his flight info, the delay was clearly on the tracker... Fuck. It. “Cheddar,” he told the server. “And the blue cheese. The crackers better be good ones, not bloody store brand table water—” “What he means,” Frenchie broke in, draping himself half over Izzy, “Is that if you could bring a little of everything, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” “Very good, messieurs.” The server moved on to Roach. “Just start with the blue, see where it goes,” Frenchie told him, peeling himself off and clapping him on the shoulder. “That stuff reeks; you’ll be the only one eating it anyway.” The band had taken over one entire corner of the lounge, splayed over couches, perched on coffee tables, Archie seated on the floor between Jim’s legs where they sat in an armchair, and Jackie in the other armchair, Swede standing behind her, leaning over to massage her shoulders and peer down at the menu in her hand. “I do not know why the server thinks I speak French? He thinks I am Swiss.” “That’s all right, sugarballs. Cocktail names are the same in every language.” Jackie handed up the menu to Swede, and kissed his hand as he took it. “You choose; you know what I like.” Another fucking kiss on the hand. He looked down at his fingers, white knuckled on the cheese knife. Had he ever had his hand kissed? Yes, actually, just once. At Stede and Ed’s first wedding, when they were still being formal as shit, and they’d had a receiving line, and Stede—kinda tipsy, kinda overwhelmed—had gone for a handshake, then suddenly kissed the back of his hand. Soft. Tender. Caring. Oh, fuck off! he screamed at his mind, and hacked at a chunk of Saint Agur blue. Cheese balanced on his blade, he perused the cracker selection. Yep, bland table water crackers. Flavoured crackers—who needed bloody rosemary with their cheese?—and a third kind. The wee card in front mentioned a French brand name and “sea salt”. He added it to his cheese wedge and swallowed it whole. Damn, that was good. He went for a second, more sensible bite, and savoured it. The others had moved around a bit, shifting platters and glasses and bodies, and he found himself seated next to Fang, tucking into a plate of fish and chips. “Still two hours to wait,” he said, clinking his glass of sirop to Izzy’s sparkling water. “Want to come with me? I’m going fishing for a gift.” “Might as well.” He moved on to the Reblochon and, behind the table water, discovered a stack of smokey crackers that paired perfectly. “How you doing, Izzy?” “Eh? I’m fine.” Fang set down his fork and banded an arm about his shoulders. “Unhand me,” Izzy told him. “Unhand me.” “You really don’t seem fine.” Fang gave him a squeeze, right up against his soft t-shirt. Some sort of garbled sound escaped confinement. He didn’t look up to see if anyone was watching. “Shh, it’s all right,” Fang told him. “Am I crushing you?” He shifted his hold, so that they were still pressed together, but now had the cheeseboard before them. “There we are. Tell me which one’s the best, I want to taste it.” “Yeah. Yeah, okay.” He sniffed, grabbed a napkin and swiped at his face. “Right. And you can tell me what gift you’re looking for.” They got through the board, helped along by Auntie and Zheng, who had strong opinions about blue cheese, but agreed with him about the rosemary. “Just coming down from the tour, I guess,” he finally said to Fang. Not exactly spilling his guts, but not hiding everything either. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s not easy. Especially not when you’re alone...” “Yeah, well. That. Didn’t expect to be.” “Just for a few days, though, right?” “That doesn’t make it better. I just thought... Never mind.” But, under Fang’s inviting stare, he added in a mumble, “Just thought I was wanted.” “Seems to me like... You’ve already got the no. Best thing to do is reach out for the yes.” Barely above a whisper, he said, “I’m always the one bloody reaching out. Happy to get fucking crumbs in return. What the fuck,” he added, and the “—is wrong with me?” at the end went unsaid. “I see more than crumbs here,” Fang said quietly, looking straight at him. Then he spun the board about, so that the last wodge of Comté was on Izzy’s side. “Eat up, let’s go gift shopping.” When they got back from the Lafayette store half an hour later, it was to find most of the crew dozing. Lucius was dragging himself out of an armchair to go bring Pete, somewhere by a runway viewing window, a plate of snacks. He cocked a brow at Izzy. “Might as well,” he said, same as he’d done with Fang, and off they went. “So what’s the matter with you?” Lucius asked, as they plodded down the terminal hall. “Beyond the usual, I mean.” Izzy was starting to get that itchy feeling airports always gave him. Whether it was the recirculated air or the lack of an open window to the outside, or the endless sameness over and over—electronics shop, food shop, shiny corner of a duty-free shop, and gate after gate of people all blabbing and jabbering away—he was already desperate for a shower and a change of clothes. Lucius’ attitude didn’t help. “Aren’t you tired?” Izzy asked. “Or are you just feeding off social media likes, or whatever the term is.” Lucius didn’t even grace him with an “okay, grandpa” or some blather. Just waited him out. “How do you do it?” he asked, stopping at the bottom of the flight of steps up to the viewing area. Once they got up to where Pete stood, there’d be less conversation and more banter. And he really did want to resolve all this in his head. “How do you work and play together? Feel like I’m always chasing, playing catchup.” “Oh, is this about—” Lucius dug an elbow into Izzy’s side. The band all knew about Izzy’s relationship, but their paths didn’t cross often. “You’ve got to decide if Mysterio is worth it. Maybe if you moved on...” “No.” He scowled at a speck of cream on his sleeve from the plate in Lucius’ hand, and swiped it off. “At the end of the day, they’re still the brightest, most creative person I know. Why can’t our relationship be a balance? Why don’t they want to face the world together?” “Have you asked The Invisible Background Character?” He ignored Lucius’ increasingly ridiculous nickname game. “I asked, ‘why aren’t you interested in what I’m up to?’ and I got told, ‘I’m not interested in anyone.’ So then I dared to ask why I was lumped in with everyone else. No answer. I said they were special to me. I got scoffed at. I’m always trying to build them up, but I don’t even get... I’ve written ten songs in the last couple of months.”
Dancing on your own just don’t seem right to me / but if you want to be alone you got the right to be...
“You guys liked ’em fine,” he added. “No one else has even listened to them.” To Lucius’ credit, he didn’t automatically drip sarcasm. “Wish I had an answer for you, Iz,” he said. “If you’ve decided to stick it out with No Engagement At This Time, then I guess all you can do is... Well, okay, if it’s not enough for you that we rate your songs—” “Reckon it has to be enough.” “If you’re going to settle for that, yeah.” Better if he didn’t have to fucking settle. But he’d meant what he’d said; if you held a sword to him, or whatever, he’d still say Mysterio was the best. If he wasn’t willing to get out, he’d have to keep telling himself to suck it up, accept his lot; take whatever they had to give. How fucking lonely. Lucius broke in with a shoulder bump and, “Are you saying you don’t want me to set up a second website for your solo stuff?” “Solo— Who said I meant—” Lucius waggled his brows. “Maybe,” he drawled, not committing to anything. “Not all the songs. Just the ones that don’t fit the Blackbeard brand.” Grinning, Lucius began to head up the stairs. “What’re you going to call yourself, babe? Izzy and the—” “Depends who’s playing in the band, doesn’t it?” He followed, steps lighter than they’d been. “Could get some guest stars...” “Izzy and the Stooges? Misfits? Queens?” Lucius bounced up the last step, and there was Pete, eyes bright at the sight of his husband. “Twatty.” Pete turned the same bright look to him. “What’s up?” he asked. Interested, eager—and not only to hear Lucius’ side. On the way back to the lounge, they checked the board again—another hour’s delay tacked on. “We could’ve gone into Paris at this rate,” Zheng grumbled. “Nah.” Archie sprawled beside her on a couch. “We’ve been running around for months. It’s nice to— Ahh.” She sank lower, spread her legs, threw an arm each about Zheng and Jim’s shoulders. “I suppose,” Zheng said, reaching for a bowl of madeleines. She plopped it on her lap, and Archie and Olu dug in from either side. “We’ll miss the last ferry, though,” Izzy pointed out. Stede and Ed blew in. “Not to worry, crew! I’ve found us a hotel!” Stede cried, waving his phone in the air. Ed giggled. “It was the only one that had enough rooms available.” Izzy switched his gaze from Ed’s giggles to Stede’s blush. He crossed his arms. “What’s wrong with it?” “Nothing’s wrong, exactly,” Stede hedged. “It’s got a bit of a theme—” “Not tall ships or pirates again,” Auntie said. “No, no. It’s a honeymoon hotel.” Half the crew’s eyes turned to Izzy. You absolute twat, he thought. But then, Stede didn’t know. Ed didn’t know. He’d lost the thread of who he’d confessed what to. None of them actually knew the details. The tentative way he’d broached the subject of marriage. The ring he’d suggested using, the family heirloom emerald. The hesitancy and confusion he’d had to face. The way he’d deflected. Pretended he hadn’t been all that serious. The status quo he was stuck in. No—not stuck. He’d made his choice. At least, that’s what he’d implied with Fang, what he’d told Lucius. He deflected again, hitching on a neutral expression until the others stopped staring at him. Olu dug out his laptop and began the booking process. Izzy slunk over to the bar and drew up a stool. Ordered a basket of fries. Frenchie pulled up a stool next to him. “Hey, lover. All good?” “Fine.” “Fine’s for the birds. You know what I mean?” “Birds like being on an even keel?” “No, that’s not what I mean. I mean, I can tell when you’re all bottled up inside.” He glanced about. All the crew were chattering, laughing, heads together. Other travellers had their faces stuck in their phones. The bartender and other servers were busy milling about. No fries yet before him. No menu. Not even a bloody chalkboard of a drinks list to pretend to read. No distractions. “I fear the worst,” he admitted, before his “bottled up” self could explode. “What if it’s over?” Frenchie nodded, as if Izzy had spouted some sort of wisdom, instead of asking a question. “Depends on... D’you want to be vulnerable? Or d’you want to risk that, I mean. ’Cause in order to be happy, you need to be vulnerable.” “Never done that before.” The bartender slid over a tray of fries, a pitcher of water, and a pile of condiments. Frenchie was the only one that shared his taste when it came to chips. Together, they doused them in malt vinegar, and tucked in. “Don’t tell me there’s a first time for everything,” he added. “Wasn’t about to. Makes for good songwriting material, though. Being bottled up—then letting it all out.” He snorted a laugh. “That what you do?” “Sometimes.” Frenchie glanced behind him, and John glanced up, as if a signal had passed between them. “Sometimes it’s better to focus on the good stuff. Our songs, no rules. It can be whatever we want it to be.” They sprinkled more vinegar, and ate their way through the mound of perfectly seasoned chips. Finally, finally, a gate was posted for their flight. Here came another round of hurry up and wait. The band gathered up their stuff, tipped the lounge staff, and got onto the moving walkways. They reached the gate early enough to snag a row of seats facing each other, and got to talking shop. How the tour had gone, what was on the horizon. Their next album, and where they might want to record it, whether they could afford legendary studios such as Abbey Road or Roundhead. “What about Izzy’s solo project?” Lucius said with a smirk. “He needs a name.” Everyone began to bombard him with suggestions. “Izzy and the Union Gap.” “Izzy and the Dreamers.” “It should be original!” Jim said. “Not a copy of old bands.” “Izzy’s Revenge.” John snickered. “Sounds a bit like an intestinal condition.” “What about the album name?” Pete interjected. Roach said, “Izzy Does the Gamahuche.” “Does the what?” he cried, knowing perfectly well what the word meant. Those who didn’t know were looking between him and Roach, who dug an elbow in his side and went, invitingly, “Ah?” “Can you imagine the interviews I’d have to give? No way.” Lucius had already looked up the word. He held out his phone so the others could see, and everyone began to whoop and holler, before they remembered where they were. “How do you know that word?” he asked Roach under the general mayhem. Roach waved an airy hand. “I read all sorts of things. And you?” “I studied a bit of French literature at university.” “Literature.” Roach snickered. “I didn’t realise this word cropped up in literature.” “Baudelaire, Verlaine—” “De Sade. Among others. I’ll send you a link.” Roach fiddled with his phone, then glanced up. “You don’t mind?” “Mind what?” “Some people get embarrassed by these things. Other people noticing what they like to read.” He shrugged. He wasn’t precious about that. He’d rather be asked about whatever book he was in the middle of. If someone cared to know what he was reading, what he thought of the poems or essay or novel that was filling up his spare hours. Someone, ha. “Then there’s people that shout online about every book they read,” Roach added. He snorted. “Or every dish they eat. Every sunset they see. All about their life’s journey.” “I saw a great quote the other day: life isn’t about finding yourself, it’s about creating yourself.” “What if... What if the self you create grows away from the self your partner’s created?” Roach stopped fiddling with his phone and looked him over, just as their group was called for boarding. “D’you love what they’ve grown into? Maybe it’s not growing away but...beginning again.” They gathered their bags and queued up before the gate agent. He cast his mind for a pithy rejoinder. Some way to say, I agree with you but fuck, it’s not easy. The band filed onto the jetway, jostled and squeezed in the narrow passage. He bumped up against Roach—and Roach passed an arm about his shoulders and gave him a brief hug. Then Archie jumped on him from behind. “Fucking finally, we’re leaving! Vacation starts now!” For a second longer, he faltered. Then he swung her around, clapped Roach on the shoulder. Cried out, “Stupid fucking Charles de Gaulle!” “Don’t jinx it!” Frenchie demanded. “Not till the flight’s taken off!” He had a point, so they shut up talking—though they kept on laughing—and got themselves arranged. Olu had booked the tickets as a block; when the dust settled, Izzy found himself in a window seat, with Ed between him and Stede. He ignored Stede fussing with his seatbelt, the magazine, the drinks menu, the overhead fan, and Ed arranging his sweater and blanket and pillow, and stared at his phone. He still hadn’t replied to the incoming message. He typed, No, then stopped. He typed, Boarding now. He typed, Are you— And stopped. Ed nudged his elbow, raised a brow. He raised one back, indicating the announcement currently playing overhead, about turning off all electronic devices. “I’ve got a minute left to decide on something.” Stede leaned over Ed, a hand on his husband’s shoulder. “Izzy, I forgot to tell you! I found the perfect restaurant for the end-of-tour celebration. But we haven’t made the reservation yet. Buttons is only getting in the day after tomorrow. And I wanted to ask, which day would be best for you?” Izzy knew what he meant—would Izzy be on his own? “Thanks,” he gritted out. “I’ll find out soon and let you know.” “Fab!” “Be good to see the two of you together,” Ed added in a low voice, as the air crew began the safety demonstration. “It’s been a while.” “I know.” “Havin’ a think, are ya?” “All fucking day.” They fought for space on the armrest as the plane began to roll away from the gate. He shoved at Ed’s arm, and Ed laughed and snuggled into Stede’s side instead. “What’ve you come up with?” He pulled up his messages. Thought back over all that Jim, Fang, Lucius, Frenchie, Roach— Fuck. They’d all been there for him, all day. Yeah, he was all in. But he had to stop cutting out the value of friendship. No reason to be that bloody lonely when he had something greater than himself—the band. He caught Ed’s eye for a second and said, “Not moving on is worse.” Then he deleted all his empty words and wrote, “Flight was delayed and we’re only taking off now. We’ll miss the ferry—but I guess that means you and I’ll be on the same ferry out to the island.” He kept his phone on, even as the plane rolled down to the runway. “We’re all on your side, mate,” Ed added, over the rumble of the engines. “If you need it.” Izzy caught his eye again, gave Ed a nod. He was just about to give up and put his phone away, when a reply came through. —Brilliant, better plan than before. Did you have any cheese? Want to hear all about it. You are loved. He turned off his phone. Held it to his chest and, out the window, watched fucking Charles de Gaulle grow small and smaller, until it became a dot on the landscape, connected to all the other dots for miles around.