"Maybe someday
is where it all starts...
And maybe someday
always comes again..." 
 

The Cure "Maybe Someday"

 

I don't want to wake up. I don't ever want to wake up again.

It's not the hangover that that I know I can't avoid. It's not having to deal with the mess I've made of my room. It's not having to apologise to Ben, Leonie, Karl and the rest for pissing off on them. It's not any of that.

No. It's because I know that if I open my eyes and get out of bed that I'll eventually have to face you. It might not be straight away, it might be after lunch, or when we check out, or when we board the plane out of here, but I know that sometime today I'm going to see you. There's no avoiding it. There you'll be - with your too-long legs and too-thin arms, your golden-blonde hair and your generous mouth. I'll look into your pretty green eyes and I know what I'll see. Digust. Maybe anger, maybe even fear - but definitely disgust.

I'm not looking forward to that one bit.

A soft knock at my door. I bet it's Leonie, she's the only one who bothers to knock. I groan something like "go away", but she doesn't. She keeps on with the annoyingly polite 'tap tap tap's till I can't stand it and, despite my throbbing head, I drag myself upright and let the bitch in.

"Jesus, Darren - you look like hell."

"Thanks." I mutter. "When's our flight?" May as well cut to the chase, I want to get her out of here as soon as possible.

"Three thirty-"

"Then what the hell are you doing here so early? Go away. Let me get some more sleep."

"I'm not here about the flight..." She continues to prattle on, but I'm not listening. I know what she's saying - more day to day bullshit, iteniaries, interviews, wardrobe decisions - she lives for that shit. I don't know how she can function like this *all* the time, ya know? Sometimes I'm severely tempted to tell her to go get her own life and stop trying to borrow mine, but I always catch myself. I'm not like that. Or at least I don't want anyone to know I am.

"... and Daniel said-"

"Daniel?" Oops, she said the magic word. "What about Daniel?" I prod, and I know I sound eager, desperate even, but I can't help it. She looks a little taken aback at my sudden interest, but glad I'm paying attention again.

"Well he just... sorta mentioned he's been a bit... concerned about you."

"Concerned?" //Oh fucking great, what am I doing now?// "Concerned how?"

"I don't know. Like a friend would be. Like one of your oldest friends would be." She smiles earnestly. She can be so fucking wholesome sometimes. It makes me ill. "He thought you might need someone to talk to."

"Someone like you?" What are you doing to me now, Dan - sending Leonie to tell me off? That's not like you. Are you afraid to get your hands dirty?

"Actually, no." She glances down, looking guilty. "Like someone more... qualified."

"Qualified?" My voice is cracking. I hate that. "Like a shrink? Like a psychoanalyst?" I can't believe it. I can't fucking believe it. I get drunk and horny and suddenly I'm a raving loon! What's next - you going to have me committed? Or are you gonna have Leonie do it for you?

Leonie doesn't say anything. She just sits there like a lump and looks guilty so I know I've hit the nail on the head. Great. Fucking great. If I wasn't falling apart already, it looks like I am now - on your personal decree.

"Thank you for your concern, Leonie, but I'm fine. I'll be... just... fine." The words come out staccato between my gritted teeth.

//As soon as I kill you.//

I throw her out quickly and unceremoniously and return to the task at hand - holing up in my room and being miserable. I do the whole bit, depressing music and all. I don't know where I find the energy to pack, or get myself downstairs and into the waiting car. I know I look like hell, even with my dark glasses. You must be avoiding me as studiously as I'm attempting to avoid you because I don't see you the entire time. Not on the trip to the airport, or when we check in our luggage or passing through customs. Not at all. You're a ghost.

Christ, I have to stop thinking like this. It's over. We're over, in every way possible - the friendship, the partnership, all of it. And this is when it hits me. Seated in first class, somewhere over the Pacific ocean, with clouds out the window and kilometres upon kilometres of empty air below, it finally hits me.

It's over.

I've lost you for good.

I honestly didn't think I had any tears left to cry, but more are coming. I feel like I'm grieving. I bury my head in my arms and let the tears flow. I don't care anymore about being seen by the entourage, they've probably already heard that I'm cracking up and I need psychiatric help. I can't control it anyway, the sobs are racking my body so hard my chest hurts, but I can't make them stop.

It feels good to let it out, cry properly, *grieve* properly. With my head in my arms I'm blind - anonymous in darkness, the tears leaking out onto the sleeve of my sweater. I feel movement beside me - someone sitting next to me, Leonie I bet.

"Leave me alone, Leo." My voice is gravelly and nasal from crying.

She doesn't go. I don't look up, thinking if I ignore her she'll eventually get the hint. Still, the body beside me remains. I'm pressing my face harder into the soft material of my sweater, when I feel it. Gentle fingers in my hair, petting me softly. The touch is strangely calming and I'm leaning into it involuntarily.

After a few calming moments, gentle fingers give way to gentle hands, carefully pulling me away from the seat rest and positioning me within a warm embrace. But when I snuggle close into the warm, giving body that comforts me, I don't find Leonie's soft, womanly curves. Instead, I find myself wrapped in too-thin, too-long arms, pressed against a lean masculine chest.

I open still-damp eyes and see your face.


"Dan-"

"Shhhh..." You silence me with a whisper, your fingers a gentle pressure at the back of my neck, urging me back into your enveloping embrace. I can't fathom the feelings that are coursing through me right now. Confusion. Shock. Incredible comfort.

I didn't think you'd ever let me come near you again, let alone touch you, hold you. My fingers tighten on your arms, and I'm pressing into your body as close as I can. Scared to let go.

Your fingers feather gently through my hair, caressing me, gentling me like one would a skittish animal. It's working. The tension, the grief is leaking out of me. Breathing keeps getting easier, until my breaths are steady and strong. My eyes are almost dry.

So here we are. You're holding me, as my cheeks stiffen with drying tears, my face smushed into your chest very un-elegantly. Without the all-consuming pain here to distract me all I feel is confused. Why are you being so nice to me? You should hate me. I'm a bad person.

Unconsciously, the tip of my tongue strokes the tear in my bottom lip where you bit me. And I wonder what I did right to deserve this kindness from you after what I did last night. Maybe nothing. Maybe you're just comforting me because you think I'm falling apart. I'm losing my grip on reality and I need my head shrunk, so you're humouring me. Poor little Darren, lost his band and lost his marbles.

"Dan-"

"Shhhh... not now." Again, you wont let me talk - explain - apologise.

"But I-"

"Hush." There is a subtle order in your voice and I know you wont have this discussion with me right now. "We'll talk later ok? Don't spoil it."

//Spoil what?// I want to ask, but I don't. I just curl into your arms, the familiar, patented Jones embrace and savour the peace and comfort. And I make myself promise not to entertain any of those bad thoughts of break-ups and regrets, rapes and monsterhood. Not right now. This moment is just for us.

And with your arms around my shoulders, my head on your chest and your fingers a soft touch on my hair, I'm taken back to a thousand moments like this - us, in this very same position - on a plane, in a car, at the studio break room, on my couch at home.

From our first night in that flat in Kings Cross when you nursed me through a severe bout of self-doubt and homesickness to the absolute devastation of our heart-to-heart in the dressing room last night. It feels like I've always had this - the warmth of your body and your friendship wrapped around me, a balm to my aching soul when I'm falling apart, and even when I'm not.

I've always had you.


I'm going to miss this.

Your hands rub gentling circles on my back. The fabric of your shirt is soft against my cheek. My eyes are dry now, and when I search for that choking grief inside, all I find now is comfort. I know one hug from you wont fix everything, Savage Garden is still over, we're still going to be apart. But something is keeping the pain from overwhelming me, and I know what it is. It's your arms around me, the warmth of your embrace, the soft smile you're giving me.

It's because I know I haven't lost you.

With no speech or interaction between us, this moment stretches on forever. I don't know if we lie like this for minutes or hours. I don't know if you fall asleep first, or if I do. All I know is that when I wake up it's dark out and the cabin is silent except for the light snores of our entourage, and the funny sighing noise Ben makes in his sleep.

I feel more rested than I have in weeks. I've finally had the deep healing sleep I needed. Your arms are still around me and I'm touched that you continue to hold me, even in your sleep. I'm afraid to move. I'm not ready for you to let go.

I shift my head slightly, tilting my chin up so I can look at you. In sleep your face doesn't relax. In fact, you get this kind of serious expression that I've never seen on your conscious self, except when you're putting on a mock-serious face to make a joke. As a result, watching you now I keep expecting you to snap out of your 'serious face' into ecstatic laughter. You don't of course. You just keep sleeping.

You're so beautiful. You are, Dan. I know you don't believe that, and that just makes your beauty more real. You don't understand why the photographers always want you to step into focus, or why the teens want to pin you on their walls. To tell the truth, Dan, it was your looks that sold us to that audience. Little pale Darren wasn't the one who scored us a slew of fans in our 'I Want You' days. It was your golden good looks that got us noticed. Yet another reminder of how much I owe you. Where I wouldn't be without you.

Your eyes flicker slightly, probably in a dreamstate, and involuntarily my body tenses. This shift in my weight disturbs you (you've always been a light sleeper) and I watch, still, as you mutter and toss, your eyes slowly opening. Confronted by those intense emeralds, I'm drawn, I'm frozen. The situation is suddenly so intimate. I could count your eyelashes. I can feel your breath on my face. I have the strongest urge to kiss you.

//No you don't! You're not starting this again.//

The feeling is so strong. Your lips look so soft. My mouth is aching to touch yours. But I wont. I can't. I force myself to think of the look on your face last night. The fear, the disgust. I run my tongue over the bite mark you left on my lip to remind myself of all the reasons why kissing you is an extremely *bad* idea.

Internally I'm chanting over and over. //Don't do it. Don't do it.// But your mouth looks so tempting. Staring into your eyes, all I see is invitation.

//It's a lie. He doesn't want it. You're just seeing what you want to see.//

Maybe I am. But is it wishful thinking when I notice your pupils dilating, your breathing quickening, the way you're staring at my mouth? Am I inventing these symptoms of arousal? Am I just imagining your face drifting closer to mine, your tongue flicking out to wet your lips, the anticipation in your expression? Is it simply a flaw in my perception that every fibre of your being is screaming 'kiss me'?

I must be dreaming. I must have a very very vivid imagination because I can feel your hands tightening around me, your breath feathering over my lips. I even see your eyes slide shut and your head swooping down to capture my lips. A microsecond before I percieve that I will feel the sheer heaven of your lips covering mine, I panic. Behind my eyelids I see the frightened look on your face as you cowered against the door last night. I pull away from you, murmuring,

"I'm sorry."

I don't know what I'm apologising for. For wanting to kiss you, or for thinking you wanted to kiss me?

"What for?" Your expression is confused and - my deceiving mind leads me to think - disappointed.

"Last night. For what I did to you last night, Dan. I can't apologise enough."

And there it is. The stone in your expression has returned. The fog of sleep has lifted from your brain, or perhaps the veil of self-indulgence has lifted from mine, and I can see the coldness, the disgust in your eyes again. It feels so familiar.

You try to hide it behind a blank look, but I can still see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice when you say,

"I don't know what you mean." with carefully feigned confusion. Oh Jonesy, it's so sweet the way you try to hide it from me. The way you're trying to protect me from your disgust. Thank you. Sincerely - I thank you, but I can't let you keep lying to me. It's bad for both of us.

"Dan. Please. Can't we be truthful?"

You regard me for a moment, and I almost think you're considering it. Then you break into a false smile and a forced chuckle.

"Darren, you were so drunk last night - I'm surprised you can remember anything."

"I remember this."

I lift a hand to my lips, tugging the lower one down with my index finger and showing you the tear in my lip.

"God Daze, how did you do that?" The lie falls easily from your mouth.

"Don't. Dan please - *don't*."

Why do you have to do this? Hell why do *I* have to do this? Why do I always have to force you to talk about things I live to regret, and you don't want to admit?

"You know how I got this. You gave it to me, to fight me off, when I was trying to ra-" my voice sticks in my throat. I can't even say it. My eyes are starting to burn and it takes all my strength not to succumb to the tears that are threatening. "When I..." Again, I can't finish. I can barely start.

It's too hard to look at you and your carefully applied expression so I turn away, trying to find some strength but seeing nothing but the cold night sky outside the airline portal. Please Dan, you have to admit it. You have to acknowledge what happened so I can beg your forgiveness.

"Darren it's ok, you're going to be ok." Your voice is soothing, and again I feel the gentle touch of your hands on my shoulders. Calming. Pacifying.

"It's not ok, Dan. It's never going to be ok." I turn my body and force myself to look at you. I raise one shaking hand to your face, a fingertip trailing the sharp line of your cheekbone. "What I did to you..." My voice sounds so small, even to me. "I can't believe what I did to you."

And now my eyes are brimming again. Your face holds nothing but compassion.

"You didn't do anything to me you didn't think I wanted."

"What?" The word falls from my mouth abruptly. Shocked, I stare at you openly, unable to believe what you've just spoken. In one single sentence you've managed to not only acknowledge what happened last night, but also convey your forgiveness and understanding. Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. You truly are the master nice guy. I feel so staunch and selfish by comparison.

"You forgive me?" My question is tainted with disbelief.

"Of course I do, Darren. I know you'd never try to hurt me." Your smile is reassuring, so elegant, so dignified. It's crazy //I'm crazy// but instead of being relieved I just feel dirtier, more offensive, more stained by my actions. Here you are - as forgiving and beautiful as you can be - and all I feel is low, disgusting and unworthy.

"But I hurt you-"

"No you didn't." You counter immediately, tilting your head from side to side almost comically to display a lack of visible injury. "See - perfectly fine."

But from memory I still see your frightened expression, confused and afraid and I can't get the doubt off my face.

"If anything I should be apologising to you." You raise your fingers to my mouth and your touch sets my bottom lip alight. "I hurt you."

"It's nothing." I counter. My voice sounds so far away. "It was necessary - self defence."

I see you try to contain a snort of disbelief.

"Darren, you could never hurt me."

//Stop it. Stop being so understanding. I need anger - fear - pain. I need to be punished for what I've done. I don't deserve this forgiveness! I don't deserve you.//

"But I - I tried to force you - twice - no three times, into something you didn't want." Even to my ears my argument sounds lame. You just regard me with those serene emeralds, unmoved. Untouchable.

"But you thought I wanted it." You say simply.

"Did you want it?" The words are out before I can think twice.

"What?" Finally, a reaction. Your mask slips slightly, revealing surprise, and another emotion I don't have time to inventory.

"Did you want it?" I repeat, gaining confidence despite the impropriety of the question. "Last night? Ever? Have you *ever* wanted to be with me, like that?"

"I'm not gay, Daze." Your answer is knee-jerk fast.

"I didn't ask if you were gay. I asked if you ever wanted to be with me. Have you ever thought about it?"

"Yeah, sure." Casual shrug. Your tone has shifted to something a little more practiced, a little less personal. "But everyone does. I mean, half the world was convinced we're a couple - of course I've considered it."

Your answer is so careful it feels like an interview. A bad interview with a journo who only wants the juicy stuff. The tiring kind. The kind so full of wordplay and innuendo you wind up with brain exhaustion from trying to give only ambiguous answers.

"So you've never wanted to?" I can't get the disappointment from my voice.

"Daze, I'm not gay."

"But you've never wanted to even - experiment?" God, is that *hope* in my voice? I am such a sucker for punishment.

"Have you?"

"I'm asking you." Nice try Dan, but you're not turning my question back on me instead of answering it.

"You answer first."

"Alright - yes. But given last night that's obvious." And it's not like I'm telling you anything you haven't already figured out, but I'm still short of breath from saying it aloud.

My hand has found it's way to your jaw. Your skin is like silk, but roughened slightly with stubble. My eyes bore pleadingly into yours.

"So you've never wanted to. Even once?" I'm pushing now and I know it. But it's scaring me how much I need to hear the answer to this question.

Again, I must be kidding myself. Hallucinating. Because your eyes seem to soften. Your mouth seems to fall a little further open. Your breathing is getting a little harsher, more audible. Obviously, I'm seeing things again.

"I'm not gay." I've lost count of the number of times you've said that.

"That's not what I'm asking." And the number of times I've said *that*.

"I don't like guys."

"But do you like *me*?" //Stop it Hayes. Stop pushing. This is only gonna get worse.//

Your face softens at my agonised question, and I hear you release a small sigh. You regard me as a parent would a young child seeking approval.

"Darren, I love you -" My heart catches at the words, but you barrel on before I can react properly, "- As a friend, a brother."

"A lover?" There's that hopeful noise again. I've really got to give this up.

You are so still right now, you don't even blink. As if you're afraid I'll interpret even the slightest movement as a response - yes or no - and end this in one of two motions. Kiss you or turn away.

I want the kiss. Hell, I just want *you*.

//This is what I want. I feel like I've wanted it forever. Last night I tried to take it without asking.

Today I'm asking.//

I don't know if I think the words or speak them. But I know I can't blame the drink this time. I'm laying myself on the line. Stone cold sober, I have to take full responsibility for my words when I ask,

"Can I kiss you?"

You are frozen for so long I'm sure the answer's no. But I'm not moving until you say it. I have to hear the words from your mouth. Then I'll know I was wrong and that I always have been.

I need to hear you say the words.

Say it Dan. Say No.

The word drops from your lips so softly I barely hear it. But I hear it. You even move your head slightly as you say it so I know I'm not mistaken.

I know my eyes are wide. I know my mouth has fallen open and there is shock all over my face. But I know what I heard.

You said yes.

 

Onward to the next part......

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