Fever Pitch (22 page)

“Um, thanks.” Giles floundered for a way to take the conversation off himself. “How do you get out of the Minnesota Nice, anyway? Did they hand out antigens at your high school or something?”

“I got out of it by being from Chicago. Land of gangsters and crooks. Too much politeness there will get you killed.”

The statement had a weird taint, like it was half a joke and half horribly serious. “What in the world are you doing at Saint Timothy if you're from Chicago?”

“Because I wanted out of Chicago.” Baz rubbed at his eyes again, and this time there was no mistaking his pain.

“Are you okay?”

“Headache.” Baz kept rubbing. His lips pursed too.

“Can I get you something? Or should I shut up so you can be miserable in peace?”

Baz snorted a soft laugh, though he still grimaced and rubbed at the bridge of his nose a few more times. “Silence doesn't make it go away, just makes it the only thing I can think about.” He pulled his hand away from his face and placed it flat on the table. “But don't feel like you need to humor me if you have better things to do.”

The idea that he, dorky first-year Giles, could be welcome company to Baz was too much ego candy to resist. “I'll try to keep the niceness to a reasonable level.”

That made Baz's smile return, though he still seemed tense. “Days like this I miss Keeter, the bitchy queen who graduated last May. He'd pick a fight with me, we'd cuss at each other until we were exhausted, and then he'd drive me around blasting Maino until our ears bled.”

“Sorry, I don't think I can do bitchy queen, and I don't know any rap. I'm all clueless geek.”

Baz blew a gentle raspberry in dismissal. “Not even close. You're too busy rabbiting right now to know who you are, but you'll get there.”

“Rabbiting?”

“Every time I see you, you're all tense and paranoid, as if any second someone's going to jump you. Like maybe even once someone did, and you're waiting for it to happen again.”

Good God, was he that obvious? Giles became abruptly interested in the table. “A few times it got…bad.”

“Names, or bashing?”

Giles kept his gaze down. “Both.”

Baz pulled two toothpicks from a jar on the table and stuck them in the corner of his mouth, rolling them as he spoke. “Where are you from, soldier?”

“Alvis-Henning.”

Baz snorted and held up his hand for a high-five. “Shit. The land of gay suicide and pray away the gay.” He accepted Giles's reluctant hand slap. “I'd ask if it was as bad as they said on the news, but I blew a guy once who came from there. He curled my toes with some of his stories.”

“I made things worse for myself because I fucked them. Would have been smarter to turn them down, but I couldn't ever seem to. It always felt like a fuck you, even though I'm not sure it was. Plus, they were usually hot.”

Baz laughed. “Mulder, I like your style. Keep on telling me stories. I think your tactics might be better than Keeter, but the jury's still out.”

“You've kind of tapped me out. Horrible, cowering existence, a few trips to the ER, and now I'm trying to figure out how I ended up with Aaron. I read a lot, play strategy games on the Xbox, help transpose pop songs. Very boring.”

“You transpose like a motherfucker.” He winced and swore softly under his breath as he rubbed his eyes again. “Shit. Sweetheart, will you do me a favor? Pull the curtain and kill the lights.”

There was only one window in the room, and it wasn't letting in a stream of light or anything, but Giles did as he was bid. The fabric was heavy and lined with blackout fabric, and when Giles closed it, the room dimmed significantly. When he flipped the switch, because the door to the living room was closed, the kitchen went almost completely black.

“Whoa,” he said, suddenly unsure how he'd get to the table without killing himself.

“Flip the switch right next to the one you just hit.”

Giles did, and the kitchen was immediately bathed in an almost creepy red glow. Baz pulled off his glasses and leaned back in his chair so that his now-naked eyes could stare up at the freakish red ceiling. “God. Thank you.”

Giles returned to his seat. “Is something wrong with your eyes?”

“I have photophobia. Eyes all fucked up for light, and sometimes I get crazy-stupid headaches, especially when I get stressed out or pissed. Red light's okay for some reason, so I have a few places wired with crimson bulbs so I can still see but don't have to feel the strain.” He touched his left shoulder. “Have a plate here, a few bionic ribs, a trick hip. It's the eyes that are the real bitch, though. Won't ever drive again, bad as a vampire for sunlight.”

Jesus, Giles felt like an idiot. “I had no idea. I'm sorry.”

Baz quirked an eyebrow at him, and it was weird to actually see his eyes while he did it. He didn't look half so smooth, less Robert Downey Jr. and more Mark Ruffalo. “Why are you sorry? Because you thought I was copping some kind of attitude with the shades? No problem, it's what I want people to think. That would be the
other
reason I left Chicago, because too many people know the story of how I got to wear sunglasses at night, and they act like I'm blind and stupid. I'd rather them think I'm cocky and stupid. The professors know, which is why they let me wear them in class. The guys at the house keep it quiet for me. So go back to thinking I'm a piece of shit or whatever. Don't be sorry.”

Giles had no idea what to say, so he simply sat there for a few minutes. “That's kind of slick, actually.”

“If you don't want them to think about something you know they will, give them something else to focus on instead. Works every time.”

“That's what my roommate said. Except I can't figure out the something else I want them to look at.”

Baz removed the now-chewed-up toothpicks and snagged some M&Ms from a bowl on the table instead. “Hair. Clothes. Attitude. Colors. The way you talk, the way you walk. Pick a card, any card, or try a few.”

“Yeah, but how do you not feel like a fraud? Or a blithering idiot?”

“Start by letting go of the idea there will ever be a day you find the safe space where how you look or dress or walk or talk or whatever will be okay. Some piece of shit is always going to show up and judge you, and some of them will fuck you up. It's scary, but that's why you give them a straw man. You don't want it to be something you can't pull off—don't go for witty sarcasm if you can't dish it up. You want it to feel good. You, but on steroids. It's like armor. It's got to take the dings you don't want. I could give a fuck if someone thinks I'm a poser, but I have a hell of enough of a time accepting I have a disability. You figure out what would make a good front for you, and that's what you use.”

Giles wanted to ask how Baz had come by this disability, but he ate some chocolate instead and made himself consider his potential suits of armor. “My roommate suggested guyliner. I kind of dig the idea, but I'm not sure I want that every day.”

“I can see it. Would definitely get you laid in a club. It hides your nervousness too—people look at the makeup instead of you. If you wore it to class, though, the message changes. You'd have to work up a bit of piss-on-you attitude to go with it. To be a friendly guy in eyeliner is a whole different persona.”

“Well, I usually hate everyone a little, so piss-on-you would be good. Though I'd also feel guilty.”

“Why? Fuck the nice. You don't want them invading your space? Put up a
fuck you
sign. Most people will back up.” He tipped his neck to the side, eliciting a few soft cracks. “I'm going to pop a narcotic and sleep the last of this off.” As he rose, he extended a fist to Giles. “Thanks for the cooldown. Work your shit, honey.”

Giles gave him an awkward fist bump and sat in the strange red glow a long time after Baz left, thinking.

C
hapter Twenty-One

S
alvo and Ambassadors' quarterfinal competition was the last weekend of January at the University of Minnesota–St. Paul, and as the day of the performance approached, Aaron felt like the happiest frayed nerve in the world. He'd slept an average of three hours a night the whole week before the competition, and the night before his conducting final he didn't sleep at all.

Then, the day before they left for the competition, his father called.

He hadn't said much, only that he'd be coming to collect Aaron for the weekend. His tone was clipped, brusque, and when Aaron explained he couldn't get away until the official between-term break, his father's reply was so brittle Aaron thought ice had to be forming on his cell phone.

He knew. Aaron's dad knew about his major, maybe about Giles—and he was pissed.

Giles made him stay over, held him and whispered over and over it would be okay. “I'll go home with you for break. I'll drive you, come in with you if you want.”

“You can't come with me. That'll only make it worse.” Aaron snuggled in close, his heart sinking. “I knew this had to happen eventually. I just…wasn't ready.”

“We'll face it together.” Giles kissed his hair. “Get some sleep. We have a huge day tomorrow.”

Aaron didn't sleep much, and his dreams were fitful. He hated that his dad had cast a shadow over the big day. He'd been so excited, but the phone call had put shit-colored glasses on him.

“It's going to be ten kinds of hell if both groups don't final,” Aaron pointed out as they settled into their seats on the bus. “And even if they do, only one group per region can go all the way to New York.”

“We'll root for whoever wins. We're a team.”

“Then why can't we be that for real? Why does it have to be girls and guys? Why can't we be one group and be done with it? Why can't the orchestra be in it too?”

“Because it's a cappella.” Giles smoothed a hand over Aaron's hair. “It doesn't matter. It's just a competition. It's supposed to be fun.”

“Competing against each other isn't fun. All we want to do is make music. We shouldn't have to prove anything.” Aaron stared out the window, watching the frozen landscape go by. “It's people like my dad who make us compete. Make us choose.”

Giles shushed him, fed him platitudes. Aaron swallowed them, but he didn't believe them.

Aaron loved Salvo. He wanted
them
to win, to go all the way to New York. They were his work—his and Giles—and he wanted them to succeed. Not win stupid contests.
Succeed.

Working with groups like Salvo was what Aaron wanted to
do
. That's what he wanted to be known for: helping other people sing. He had a solo for the Ambassadors' set, but he didn't care about it. Singing was fine, but composing, arranging music?
That's
what he wanted to do with his life. Craft song in his head, in practice rooms, in the shower, then find the way to make it come to life. Even when he was only watching dress rehearsals in the Saint Timothy auditorium, hearing his music played and sung made Aaron feel like a magician shooting light from his fingertips.

It wasn't saving lives in a hospital or rescuing million-dollar deals in a courtroom. It might not pay enough to live on—unquestionably it wouldn't ever please his dad. Aaron didn't care. This was his joy. This was what he wanted.

Music, with Giles beside him, his friends surrounding them. That was his life right now, and it was perfect. He hated having to put it up to a contest. He was done with being judged, being weighed and measured, being other people's performing monkey.
Done.

So done that ten minutes before the Ambassadors were due onstage, he bailed.

“I can't do it.” He curled up in the corner, shut his eyes and drew his knees to his chest when Giles tried to coax him to his feet. “
No.
I can't. I
won't
. Not anymore, Giles.
Not anymore.
”

Baz came over and crouched in front of Aaron. “Peanut, what's wrong?”

Giles started to explain, but Aaron looked Baz dead in the eye and rode over his boyfriend. “I won't do the solo. I won't sing. Fuck the regents. Fuck my dad. I'm
done
.”

He tensed, ready for Baz to fight, but if anything Baz's tone gentled. “Sure, babe. I can take the solo if you're not up to it.” He took off his glasses and leaned forward, squinting a moment before steadily meeting Aaron's gaze. “But I need you to come out with us.”

Aaron hissed a breath. “I won't—”

“Not for the regents. Not for your dad. Not for any of those fuckers. For us, Aaron. For the Ambassadors.”

“We don't need a stupid competition to tell us who we are.”

“No, we don't. But there are a lot of guys for whom this is a big moment. Marius hasn't ever been to New York, and he'd love to go with his brothers. It would look great on Damien's résumé to have an ICCA win. We're using this thing as much as it's using us.” He stroked Aaron's cheek. “Mostly, though, this is a chance for you and fifteen other guys to go out there and show everybody how hard we rock. Because it feels good to strut our stuff. Because we're gonna clean up this competition, us and Salvo. Then one of us will go to New York, and whoever doesn't win will go to cheer the others on. Because that's how we roll.”

Aaron deflated, tears pricking his eyes. “I hate this so much.”

“I know, hon. Let's go flip them the bird together.” He pressed a kiss to Aaron's forehead. “Up you pop, squirt. Time to shine.”

Giles took his hand when he rose, led Aaron all the way to the edge of the stage and sent him out with a toe-curling kiss.

Aaron felt out of body on the stage, all his bad feelings still swirling, but as soon as the lights came up and Damien hummed out the first note, Aaron fell into line. At first he went through the motions, but it didn't take long for the music to infect him. It was still music, and it still spoke to his soul.

They performed a continuous song mashup rather than single numbers to fill out their twelve-minute set, at Aaron's suggestion peppering bits of “Dynamite” throughout. It was a good arrangement, but during the performance Aaron realized how much of it happened because of the music combined with the men performing it. Marius and Trevor and the rest of the baseline set up a foundation everyone else stood on—but no one, not even the soloists, stepped out from the group.

Baz wrenched the room with the solo meant to be Aaron's, working it like a stripper pole, but he channeled the energy into the group, yanking his brothers up with him into the frenzy of glory. The result was a whirling vortex of energy feeding back and forth between the audience and the Ambassadors, Baz at the center of the nexus. When it came time for Aaron to move briefly into the center for the bridge, he pushed the last of his dark clouds aside and gave Baz a run for his money on showmanship. Baz grinned and ad-libbed a subtle grind with Aaron that probably scraped right against the edge of the ICCA's dictate of family-friendly choreography.

When they finished, the cheers echoed for a full minute, the audience so pumped they vibrated. Walter and Kelly were in the front row, and they whooped and catcalled as if
they
went to Saint Timothy.

Salvo greeted them offstage, mobbing them, cheering and hugging them. Jilly had tears in her eyes when she let Aaron go.

Even without hearing the last group perform, Aaron knew it would be the Ambassadors and Salvo heading to Chicago for the semifinals. Like the Ambassadors, Salvo performed a mashup in lieu of individual songs with an anchor song threading through the middle, but Salvo's arrangement was special. The words were from “Good Times”, but the melody line was Aaron's own. The notes were subtle, buried within the familiar melody lines, but Aaron could hear each note weaving through, and it made his soul feel like a sun inside his chest. For the first few beats he was nervous, but it was fussing for nothing, because Salvo shone so bright they were a star.

Aaron's soul flew with them as they soared.

The crowd went twice as wild for Salvo as they had for the Ambassadors, and when the final scores were tallied, Salvo didn't just place. They
won
.

The entire body of the Ambassadors mobbed Salvo, hugging them, spinning them, hoisting them into the air, many of the men weeping more openly than the women.

No one's heart was more open than Aaron's. He still didn't give a shit about the competition, but Baz was right. This was
good
. Karen and Jilly held the trophy high into the air. Baz whooped. Walter and Kelly stood on their chairs and shouted Aaron's name.

It was glorious. It wasn't for anybody but them—and they
kicked ass
.

Fuck the regents. Fuck his dad. Fuck everybody who thought they could drive his life. Somehow, someday—
this
was what Aaron was supposed to do.

And no matter what, he was going to find a way to do it.

The
bus was a riot of sound all the way back to Saint Timothy.

Giles felt bad for the Drs. Nussenbaum, because even he winced at the decibel level a few times, but the two professors seemed to be enjoying the mania, particularly Dr. Mrs., who was almost smug. Nussy appeared slightly stunned, but in a good way. Like the world had surprised him, and he kind of dug it for the plot twist.

The White House had already declared it was having a party after, a fête of epic proportions. Giles dropped Aaron off at his room to change, promising to pick up him and Mina on the way over to the party. When he got to the room, he saw Brian settling on the futon, getting ready for a Halo marathon, and it burst out of him. “Brian. Get dressed. You're coming to the best party of your life, right now. Women, wine, dancing. You gotta.”

“No, thank you.” Brian snorted and indicated himself with a controller. “You do not want to see this dance.”

“
Come on.
We
won
, Bri. Salvo took first, Ambassadors second. You have to come celebrate.” He smiled as a text came through on his phone. “Min's bringing friends too. Probably girls.”

“No fucking way.” Brian held up his fingers in the sign of the cross, an awkward one because he still had a controller in one hand.

“You
like
girls, remember? You have to come.”

“Forget it. I'll stay here and kill pixelated enemies.” Brian indicated his cell phone on the bed as he took down a troop of aliens. “Feel free to live-text me.”

“You know, the girls are missing out. You're funny, smart and supportive.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence. If you can find me a female who doesn't mind that I look like a
Napoleon Dynamite
reject and have less sexual experience than most Disney princesses, please aim her at me.”

Giles patted his clothes. “I gotta change out of my monkey suit and pick up Aaron and Min and whoever else they've coerced into coming along.”

“If you want to borrow my pearls, they're in my top drawer.”

Giles headed for his dresser but paused as something on Brian's side of the closet caught his eye. “Is it too gay to ask to borrow your black V-neck? Or can I not pull it off?”

“Sure you can borrow it. Try it on and see how it looks.”

Giles did, holding out his arms as Brian studied him. “Well?”

Brian stroked his stubble with his thumb, pushing up his glasses with his free hand as he pondered. “I think it's good, but bear in mind I have no fucking idea what I'm talking about. I think you need to do the hair thing you do.” He mimed messing up the top of his head. “It's not as styled as it usually is. Probably the shirt mashed it.”

Giles put a bit of product in his hand and teased his mop back into a semirespectable fauxhawk. “Not bad. Too bad I let my ear grow closed, because a hoop would be badass.”

“I'm telling you. Guyliner.”

“Don't have any.” Giles fussed a bit more, grabbed a chunky silver watch that didn't work but looked great, and gave himself a final nod. “Okay. I think this is as good as it's going to get.”

“Go break his heart. I'll get rid of the zombies while you're gone.”

Giles tossed him a salute and headed to Aaron's dorm.

He was in the lobby with Jilly, and after collecting Min and her friends, they were off to the White House, heading across the street in a happy, chattering mob. In a fit of vanity, Giles forwent a coat so he could show off his borrowed shirt, which meant he was freezing cold. He double-timed it to the White House—at least he did until Mina grabbed him and pulled him aside.

“
Hottie.
What did you do? You look fierce. New shirt?”

“Brian's. It's not too slutty? It's a little tight.”

“Hell no. In fact.” She glanced ahead at Walter and Kelly, a wicked gleam in her eye. “You should let me put eyeliner on you. I have it in my purse.”

“No way. Come on, Min, I'm freezing—”

Mina ignored him, hauling him off into a bush while she called to the others to give them a second. Giles fought her until he realized she would draw all over his face if he didn't hold still—as still as he could get with chattering teeth. When she finished—adding a hint of pale gloss to his lips, God help him—she held up her compact.

Giles blinked at his reflection, stunned. “Holy crap. Why didn't you hold me down and do this before?”

“Because they would have beat you up at A-H.”

“They already did. Think of how much
more
I'd have gotten laid, though, with eyeliner. Possibly by a higher class of guys.”

Mina looked startled, probably because he'd never told her about being beat up before.
Not now, Min. I'm enjoying a new level of cool here.
He turned his face from side to side, admiring his profile, but Mina only indulged him a few seconds more before closing the mirror and dragging him back to the others, telling him he could admire himself again once they were inside.