Page 152 of My Lovely Tragedy
My brave, beautiful boy.
My eyes catch on the gold glinting around his neck just as his voice breaks out in a resounding wave, silencing everyone in an instant. I watch in awe as he centers himself on the stage and speaks to thousands with a composure I envy.
He is so brilliantly alive.
“I just wanted to personally thank all of you for coming out and supporting such a great cause. One hundred percent of every donation will be put toward helping LGBTQIA+ youth. This is something that is very close to every single member of The Disorients—and to every other band that has played today. And while I can’t or won’t speak of their personal experiences, I will speak of my own.
“I didn’t grow up in a home that was accepting or even loving. Hate was spewed any chance my parents got, and trying to love myself while surrounded by hate was so fucking hard—especially doing it alone. But tonight, with these donations because of all of you, we will be able to help those who need it. It’s not enough—I don’t think any amount of money will be—but it’s a start and a pretty fucking good one, at that.
“If you’re here tonight, then I’m sure you know exactly what I’m talking about. How it feels to question yourself. Your identity. Who you love. And I know my empathy isn’t enough or even what you need. But let me tell you this—fuck them. Fuck every motherfucker who ever made you doubt yourself.
“We’re here, and we’re queer, so let’s fucking do this!” The crowd erupts into a deafening scream, followed by the strum of a guitar and a rolling beat from the drums. I recognize the introduction instantly. It’s the first song I ever heard of Brooklyn’s—Linear Disaster, from his very first album and one of their most popular songs with nearly one hundred million streams.
I have listened to it countless times, but nothing could have prepared me for the vibrant intro of Brooklyn’s voice over the amplified microphone.
My eyes flutter closed of their own volition before I snap them open when I realize the face I am seeing is in my mind’s eye and not the one in front of me. The stage is dark, apart from the green lights flashing behind and outward. It casts him in a deeper shadow, but I don’t need light to know there are shadows under his eyes. Or to see he is dressed in a long-sleeved shirt.Hiding my marks from the world.
Something in my gut churns, knowing he wants to keep them for himself.
But he cannot hide the ones around his neck. The dark, bruised shadows in the shape of my mouth and teeth, highlighted by the thin chain surrounding them. The key hangs in the center of his chest. Silver and gold.
For the world to see.
For me.
This time, I let my eyes close as my darling’s voice comes through the speakers, loud but not nearly enough. I crave the vibration of his tenor, the very one that thrummed in the air all those weeks ago from up in my loft.
But this is good. The unknown within. Lanced with hope and question and acceptance.
Time passes slowly, and for that, I am grateful. For endless minutes of my crow’s voice. Singing beautifully to screaming in a raspy underbite. The heavy beat of the drums and bass, the guitar in the flow.
Another voice marries with his throughout the songs. Benji Lewis, if I am remembering correctly. And they sound wonderful together. A true partnering.
In fact, they all move across the stage, dancing with an intimacy I only recognize because I have felt it too—with him.
The only way to know Brooklyn is to be intimately familiar with his demons—and though they haven’t seen half of what he is burdened with, they know enough to protect him.
To keep him safe and to love him.
Because I was wrong.
That is what he needs—which is more than I can give.
With a smile of consuming adoration, I watch Brooklyn saunter across the stage as another song—Lay on Me, I believe—comes to a close. He throws his arm around the guitarist’s shoulder and knocks their heads together as he belts out the final lyrics, voice raspy with his scream. His leg is outstretched, resting higher up on a speaker. The man with his hair in a messy knot drops his mouth to the mic and sings along. Although his voice is much higher and noticeably less smooth than Brooklyn’s, the crowd surges.
The final strums echo, then fade. Brooklyn straightens, chest heaving and skin glistening with sweat. He drags the back of his hand across his forehead as he bends down near the mic stand to grab a bottle of water. After upending it, he tosses it into the crowd—which erupts into chaos as they all scramble to catch it.
My lips twitch into a grin as Brooklyn’s own smile comes into view. He shakes his head, dislodging a few strands from behind his ears where they stick to his sweaty face. The hum of the crowd is overpowering as they all wait in heavy anticipation for more.
The other men move around the stage, tossing hands out in goodbye-like gestures. The crowd gets louder, a raspy hiss of whispers as they all exit the stage. All except Brooklyn.
I bring my computer closer, blinking rapidly through the sheen on my eyes as Brooklyn walks to the back of the stage, where a piano is surrounded by members of the crew. He gives them a subtle nod before lifting the hem of his shirt and dragging it over his face as they finish setting up the microphone and other electrical things.
He takes a seat on the bench, back ramrod straight as he poises his fingers over the keys, illuminated in an iridescent purple. The very color that stains my walls. Every shade of him and me.
My eyes rake over every inch of him, breath caught somewhere between my mouth and my lungs.
Without so much as an inhale to steady his slight tremor, his fingers begin to move.
