476 C.E. - Three: Fugue
476 C.E.
Fugue: A piece in which a theme is stated, then tossed about the voices in the ensemble, fragmented, and developed.
Morning came with effulgence, that Monday. The weather system had passed through in the night, leaving a splendid sunrise in its wake.
It was still freezing balls, though. I was so not going outside.
Thus, I indulged the temptation to stay in bed for a few minutes, staring at the ceiling, snuggling under the blankets, and listening to October's breathing.
It might be fair to mention that I had already developed a slightly major crush on him by that point. Beyond his looks, everything about him drew me in. His easy manner, his quick humor, his curiosity, his slight ditziness, his dedication…his altogether normalcy, something that had always been missing in my life.
The fact that he was incredibly fuckable didn't hurt either.
Finally, I managed to convince myself that getting up was better than enjoying the warmth a little while longer-I needed to drive into town to make friends with the local pharmacist. Before Denmark showed up. I'll admit-I was actually looking forward to meeting him, slightly terrified though I was.
Every day since Tuesday, I had been more than a little awed-slash-overwhelmed at the incredibly sudden turn of events in my life. A week and a half ago I had been bar tending at a fully not-burned-down pub, barely able to afford everything I needed, lamenting my inability to secure a real job-employers never wanted someone with quite as much…baggage…as I had. And philosophy degrees were just super useful and all.
Everything had changed so much, so quickly. Thursday, October had thrown his credit card at me, and told me to go shopping with Kenya, since she was bored and I was severely lacking in the clothes department. I was then told to "go crazy," as October was "fucking loaded" due to royalties from his "ridiculously-bestselling solo album of death."
I didn't go crazy. Kenya did. I gained a closet full of overpriced clothes, and it was all her fault.
Friday, I obtained the most wonderful keyboard ever. It wasn't Beautiful Number Two-but a grand piano wasn't quite the sound we were going for. Although October did promise me that I could play Beautiful Number Two in a couple of tracks. But mostly I was the synth guy. Which was really no different than playing on a piano setting…except not on a piano setting.
Saturday, I spent a lot of time reading.
Sunday involved a gratuitous amount of grocery shopping.
Recap over-it was Monday, and I needed to get out of bed. With a whimper-groan, I peeled the blankets off, bit back a harsh word at the influx of cold air, and got up. Attractive green polo shirt and jeans gathered from my newly-expanded wardrobe, I grabbed a few other necessities and set off down the hall to the bathroom…which was occupied, I guessed from the obvious sound of the water running.
I still wasn't quite used to having to share a bathroom. I was accustomed to living alone-I hadn't had any sort of roommate for over a year or so. Which, in retrospect, was somewhat dumb, considering that I'd barely had enough money to scrape by with the rent and all, but, hey, I liked my privacy.
The other three were surprisingly good at giving it to me, though, I had to admit. Beyond having to share a room, I really had a lot of space to myself. However, there were only two shower-equipped bathrooms, and one was deemed Kenya's by virtue of the counters being entirely covered in hair products and makeup.
Those of us producing primarily testosterone silently agreed that we would share the other one.
Sighing, I left my clothes in a pile outside the bathroom and figured I'd have a cup of coffee while I waited for Grey-at least, I assumed that it was him since Kenya had her own bathroom and October was still asleep-to get out.
I went to the kitchen and got my designated mug-one that October thought was a very clever gift. It said, in large print, "Come visit beautiful Rome!"
The first thing I said, upon seeing it, was that it made me sound like a hooker.
Gracious is my middle name. That's not true. It's Marquis. Mar-kwiss. Not Mar-kee. No, my parents didn't do drugs. As far as I know.
Anyway, despite the plethora of jokes that inevitably followed, I used the mug every morning. Partially because, hey, a mug is a mug, and partially because…it was a gift from October.
I remembered his laughing face, blushed a little, and more vigorously stirred my coffee, using the effort to banish the weird little butterflies. I always hated crushes. Being gay only made it worse. Because nine-tenths of the male population had no interest whatsoever.
The coffee was, by then, about the color of honey, and I declared it perfect. None of that black manly shit for me-I like my coffee froofy and girly, please. I'd been asked more than once if I "wanted some coffee with my sugar and cream."
To which I replied, "Not especially, no."
I took my mug and plopped down on one of the barstools, sipping the sugary sludgy ambrosia and contemplating the marbled pattern of the counter top.
Upstairs, the sound of running water shut off. I had to commend Grey. Even if he was constantly forgetting which towel was his, he did take very quick showers.
About a minute or so later, and the bassist was stalking across the living area, naught but a towel slung about his waist. The marbling continued to fascinate me.
"Good morning. I see you're using my towel again," I said dryly.
He started, not having noticed me. "Oh-er. Sorry? They look the same…" He dissembled.
"…My towel is pink. Yours is minty green," I pointed out.
"Then that would be why I can't tell the difference," he said, edging toward the other end of the room.
"Colorblind?" I asked.
"Red-green," he answered, "May I go get my clothes from the laundry, now?"
"By all means," I answered, feeling a little guilty for giving him a lingering glance as he walked away. It was okay to look, right? I mean, he was no October, but if one was into freakishly tall black-haired-grey-eyed Brits who wore a lot of plaid, Grey was their man.
Whatever. I wanted a shower. My coffee was a reasonable temperature, so I chugged it, having to chew the gloopy sugary mass at the bottom. I set the cup in the sink, planning absently to wash it later, and trotted back upstairs to the bathroom.
The three or four pills left in the bottle rattled threateningly-it was good that I had thought to have my doctor call in the prescription down here…Even if wasn't particularly happy with my new 'lifestyle.' Said it would cause me undue stress. I mentioned that I was much less stressed than I had been in Denver, and he kind of "hrrumphed" at me and let it go.
Anyway, I was dressed and all, and that seemed like a good time to rudely wake October to let him know that I was borrowing his car.
However, when I opened the door to our room, he was sitting up (still not wearing a shirt, naturally), with his laptop balanced on his knees, checking his email, or playing Tetris, or I don't even know.
"Hey, October, can I borrow Beautiful Pie?" I asked obtrusively.
"What for?" He asked absently. I cringed.
"I need to go into town. Shopping. I didn't leave home with a lot," I equivocated. Technically it was true…
"'Kay, sure. Take my credit card and get gas while you're out," he ordered, not looking up from the screen.
"Will do," I assured him, and almost managed to catch the plastic card that was subsequently flung at me like a Frisbee. I retrieved it and stood up just in time to snatch the keys that were lobbied toward my head.
"I always knew you were out to kill me," I muttered, and October did look up then, a smile on his face. I melted.
"I told you, that time I dropped a string bass on you in high school was an accident."
"Sure, that's what they all say. I know a murder attempt when I'm nearly squished by one," I drawled, then grinned back, "See you later."
He nodded, and returned to his computer. I spun the key-ring around on my finger and about skipped down the stairs. I was in unusually high spirits-probably the combination of caffeine and freakish amounts of sugar early in the morning. Plus Zoloft.
I paused to wave at Grey, who was lounging on the rug, staring at the TV-which wasn't even turned on-and sporting a black MUSE t-shirt, rather than his typical button-up plaid. It was weird. Somehow, he pulled plaid off. Some people have that kind of style. They can wear things that other people would look dorky in. Grey's like that. If anyone else dressed like him, it wouldn't work, but on him it was classy.
I'm gay; I'm allowed to think about those things.
Anyway, I eventually managed to get out to the car and on the road, enjoying the classical radio station that I had discovered on the way down here.
Half an hour later, I got into town and found the pharmacy. I parked Beautiful Pie and walked in, a little awkwardly. With new pharmacists, I always have to go through the, 'no, I am not selling these pills, they're all for me, yes, I really am that messed up' routine.
To my surprise, the bubbly young woman seemed actually personable and competent.
"Rome France? Yes, Doctor Howard called last night, I've got everything right here, if you'll hold on," she gushed, probably having had more coffee than I had that morning.
"Thanks," I said feebly, bowing under the onslaught of her excitable personality.
Ten minutes later, my prescriptions were refilled and I was out of there. It was considerably less painful than I had been expecting. But I've always been a pessimist.
I filled up Beautiful Pie with gas-premium, of course-and considered heading straight back up to the lodge, but the bookstore next to the gas station made me change my mind. Tim had wired my last paycheck from the pub into my account, and that actually left me with a bit of extra money, since I didn't have rent to pay and everything.
I popped in, waved at the clerk, and wandered to the philosophy section. It was pitiful-they always were in chain bookstores, so I ambled by the science shelves on the same row, then past the science fiction and over into the literature. I saw a few of the books I'd been meaning to pick up if I ever ran across them, and gathered them up into my arms as I kept browsing.
An insurmountable amount of time later, I managed to check out and head back to the lodge, still in that unreasonably good mood. I was, as a general rule, in a bad mood ninety percent of the time. Natural pessimist, complete cynic, bipolar, clinically depressed, a misanthrope. All me. Those weren't personality traits that went with good moods. And yet, there I was, humming happily along to Mahler on the radio.
I didn't know what had had me all optimistic and shit lately, but I certainly wasn't telling it to go away.
There was an unfamiliar car parked outside the lodge when I got back, and I belatedly remembered that Denmark was supposed to show up today-looked like he had, and I had completely missed it.
Self-consciously, clutching my bag of books, pills safely stowed away in my pocket, I opened the door and walked in, only to be immediately hailed from the living area.
"Hey, Rome! You decided to join us," October said jokingly.
"Oh, um, yes. I…lost track of time?" I defended myself lamely.
I strolled over and set October's card on his head and dropped his keys on the couch next to him. Only then did I allow myself to look around the rest of the room. Grey was on the floor-not unusual, as he seemed to have some natural aversion to furniture. Kenya was in one of the armchairs, and in the other was…a man with very, very green hair.
"Hi," I greeted him with a wave, "Your hair is green."
Denmark smiled. "I know," he said enthusiastically. "Isn't it just gorgeous?"
"It works okay. It's a nice foresty shade, not all neon like little high school scene kids."
"Scene kids, ew," Denmark made a face.
"You can say that again," I remarked.
"Scene kids, ew," Denmark repeated.
I turned to October, and said, in a weird echo of Kenya's comment about me, "I like him. Can we keep him?" Finally, I flopped down on the opposite end of the couch from October, hyper-aware of the man a cushion away.
"Well, you'll have to feed him, and brush him, and bathe him…" October said, and the whole conversation was déjà vu.
…Until both Denmark and I cut him off, saying, "No thanks. He's not my type," in unison. Denmark added, "But if I get one of those collars with the rhinestones, I'm in."
"Collars: kinky," I heard Kenya mutter under her breath, her lips pressed together like she was trying to keep from laughing out loud. October was shaking his head fondly at both of us, and Grey was looking between us with something akin to horror on his face.
Finally, I chuckled, and said with a semblance of sanity, "Hi, I'm Rome France, and if you say something about Rome being in Italy, October will have to find a new drummer."
The green-haired man shrugged. "At least you're not Paris?"
"That's my brother."
"No foolin'?"
"Not at all."
"Damn. Bet he got picked on in school."
"Little bit, yeah."
"And let me guess: you have a sister named Madrid?"
"London, actually," I answered.
"…And your parents' names are Lisbon and Dublin, right?"
"Joe and Kathy."
"Oh. So, hi. I'm Denmark. I'm Danish," he said in a complete non sequitur.
"No he isn't; he's a good Englishman like his third cousin over here," Grey's British accent cut into the conversation for the first time.
Denmark pouted. "If it makes you feel better," I offered, "I'm not Roman or French."
"What are you?" He asked, tilting his head and making the fluffy green semi-spikes bounce.
"Portuguese, I think. My family's mostly from Argentina, though," I answered with a shrug.
"Cool! Do you speak Spanish?"
"Un poco. Hablas Danish?"
"Espeako American," he answered solemnly.
"Me dos," I replied.
The conversation trailed off, and October cut in, "So, Rome, what you missed. Denmark approved our band name, so we're good, there. That's about it."
"Thrilling," I commented.
"Yeah," Kenya cut in, "It's been a very productive seven minutes or so."
"Whaaat?" I asked, looking at October and placing my hand on my chest. "You made it sound like he had gotten here hours ago!"
He shrugged and grinned, and it spread to me like a virus. October had the most amazing smile I think I had ever seen.
Then, he began speaking again. "And now that we're all here, I have exciting news!"
No one said a word, but four pairs of eyes were trained on the vocalist, who seemed to be prolonging the suspense as long as he could without having something thrown at him.
"We got signed."
"Without them having heard our nonexistent music or anything?" Kenya asked.
"That's what happens when the singer is internationally famous, I assume," I quipped, "He could sell records without the four of us."
"True dat," Kenya replied, pointing at me.
"Solo album: ew," October said with a shudder.
"So, who signed us?" Denmark asked in almost normal tones.
October leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, and the rest of us leaned in, in response. "Well, it's not some Indie label no one's ever heard of, but it's not…Universal Records, either. Maureen did all the work-they'll sponsor us, but they'll leave us alone to actually make the record. Which is pretty much everything I wanted in the first place. I think I love her," October finished whimsically. I knew what he meant, but I felt an absurd pang anyway.
There was a long silence that was broken, unexpectedly, by Grey. "Alright. So we have a label. I expect that they expect us to put out a record?"
"Point," October said, gesturing at the bassist on the floor.
"Shall we discuss this mysterious future album, then?" I asked, not entirely sure how the whole 'Oh, hey, I'm in a group that could potentially sell platinum records' thing went.
"Yes. That would be a good thing to do," the singer said. "Who has ideas?"
Denmark immediately said, "I believe that this wonderful album of epicness that we shall release should have a serious lack of cliché love songs."
"I like the way you think," I commented to him.
October inclined his head. "Yes, please. We're supposed to be a…for lack of a better word…intellectual band, at any rate. Think you can handle that, Denmark?"
"Sure I can!" He nodded vigorously, green hair floating, "I am intellectual as fuck. I can count to, like, seven and everything."
"Well, then you're already more qualified than most drummers these days," I heard Kenya mutter.
October laughed, and steered the conversation back on topic. "I'm definitely not trying to make all the decisions, but I was thinking that maybe it could be…thematic in nature?"
"Like a movie score?" I asked.
"Not exactly…like it has a central theme to it, rather than an eclectic collection of songs."
"Oh," I replied, feeling dumb, "I like that. I'm guessing the theme we're going with won't be love?"
"Nah, that's overdone in the worst way," Denmark said, apparently adamantly against love songs.
"How about…humanism," Grey suggested during the ensuing lull, and when all of us looked at him, he attempted to blend into the rug, visibly awkward at being the center of attention.
"Well, I mean," he began rambling, "that sort of theme could lend itself to some very nice lyrics…I don't know." He shrugged, trying even harder with his rug-imitation.
October nodded thoughtfully. "I like it, but how about something a little broader, like, what it means to be human."
Discussion didn't so much follow as erupt after that.
What seemed like hours later, the five of us agreed to disagree on the exact content of the album, deciding instead to pile into October's car and drive into town for dinner.
Kenya called shotgun as we walked out the door.
"Who's stuck in the middle?" I asked with trepidation.
Denmark and Grey looked at each other, and the drummer put his finger on his nose, quickly saying, "Nose goes."
I looked at Grey, only to find his nose safely covered. He gave me a sympathetic look and shrugged as if to say, 'Sorry, but my legs are about fourteen meters longer than yours.' I sighed, and prepared to be squished in the undersized sports car.
The ride into town lived up to my expectations, but the aroma that drifted from the kitchen in the little Italian restaurant made it completely worthwhile.
It was fairly late, past the dinner rush, so we were seated immediately at a long table in the back. The host took our drink orders and swished away, leaving us to ourselves.
In other words, leaving Denmark to antagonize the local introvert.
"So, third-cousin-once-removed of mine," he purred.
Grey looked up, startled. "Yes?" he replied with trepidation.
"How are you liking America?" The green-haired one asked faux-innocently.
"Er. It's very…American," Grey answered ambiguously.
"Thank you Captain Obvious," I muttered to myself, half listening to their conversation, half listening to October and Kenya. I caught Denmark grin, apparently having read my lips or something.
"Define American. And if you say lazy and obese I'm going to ask if you want some tea and crumpets."
"Um. Nice?" Grey said, blinking.
Denmark sighed and facepalmed. "My attempts to lure you into more than two-word answers are doomed to failure, aren't they?"
"I talk," Grey attempted to defend himself, before realizing that his minimal answer wasn't helping his case. He looked at me pleadingly.
"He talks," I said grudgingly. "Just yesterday we sat in the recording studio and discussed Camus for, like, three hours."
"Camus?" Denmark asked.
"Albert Camus…he was a French philosopher who wrote-uh, never mind," I broke off, not wanting to give another impromptu lecture.
"Oh," Denmark vocalized, leaning back in his chair, "That makes sense, you bunch of snobby intellectuals."
"I have a degree in snobby intellectualism," I said snidely, adding more soberly, "Not that it's been any use in real life."
"That reminds me," Grey said, obviously to me, "I've been meaning to ask if I can rummage through your books?"
"Yeah," I said easily, "When we get back you can rummage to your heart's content." That got a hint of a grin.
About then, October and Kenya decided to perform conversation endocytosis. Kenya loudly suggested, "October and I are gonna head over to the bar for some drinks. You wanna join?"
Denmark replied, "Hell yeah!" and jumped up out of his chair eagerly.
"I'm not supposed to drink," I commented vaguely, making it clear that I wasn't going to elaborate.
"I don't drink anymore," Grey said, just as nebulous.
October shrugged, but respected our decisions. "Okay, Rome, you're the DD."
"Why me?" I asked, not that I objected to driving Beautiful Pie.
"Because Grey's British. He'll probably drive on the wrong side of the road or something," October answered with a wicked grin that I would have loved to have seen in an entirely different situation. One involving a lot fewer articles of clothing.
"It's you Americans that drive on the wrong side of the road…impertinent colonies," Grey muttered, and it took us all a few seconds to realize that he was joking.
The waitress came by then and took out dinner orders, and when she left, October, Kenya, and Denmark wandered over the bar, leaving instructions to come get them when the food arrived.
Grey and I stayed and babysat the table, entering a thoughtful silence. It was true that I had never even tasted alcohol. It, apparently, reacted badly with my meds, and I wasn't particularly willing to circumvent the warnings and find out what bad meant.
As for Grey, I hadn't a clue to his silence, but judging by the unhappy look on his face, it wasn't something I should pry into. After all, he had kept to his word and hadn't wheedled any information out of me regarding my pills. The least I could do was return the favor.
Unexpectedly, he was the one who broke the silence.
"So, I saw you come back with a bookstore bag. Find anything good?"
I jumped slightly. "Yeah. A couple of novels I've been meaning to get for a while. Historical fiction. I kind of have a thing for it."
"I do too, actually," he replied with a quixotic grin. "They inspired me to major in history."
"October said you're a biology major?" I asked, confused.
"Double-major, actually. That's why I didn't graduate from college until I was twenty-five," he admitted.
"So, you're pretty much a geek," I jibed with a smile.
"You should see my sweater-vest collection," he quipped.
"Do you wear them with your army of plaid shirts?"
"No, that would just be tacky. Argyle on plaid? Ew."
"I never took you for the fashion guru type," I commented.
"I'm simply full of surprises," he said lowly, almost suggestively. It made me a little uncomfortable, but a short laugh dissipated that.
"So, you didn't graduate until you were twenty-five?" I asked, reverting to an earlier topic. "How old are you? Just curious."
"Mm. I'm twenty-seven," he answered.
"Dinosaur!" I exclaimed.
"I know. I check for grey hairs in the mirror every morning. Next thing I know I'll be limping about with a cane and telling young children to remove themselves from my lawn," he bemoaned with more than a touch of the dramatic. I laughed. Grey was more open with me than any of the others. Something in our personalities clicked. We were well on our way to being BFFs. We would stay up late and paint each others' nails…or just spend hours hiding in the studio-room of the lodge and having deep conversations.
Whatever worked.
It kind of made me wish that October were into philosophy. I was really, painfully average-looking. My ideas were my best feature. And, well, I knew he wasn't into guys, but some tiny, irrational part of my mind hoped that if somehow impressed him enough, he'd realize that he was in love with me from the start and sweep my off my feet and other unrealistic romantic shit like that.
"And you're twenty-four?" Grey asked, snapping me out of my reverie.
"Minus one," I answered.
"Really? You seem older," he commented.
"Thank you for that; now I feel the need to go check for grey hairs."
"I assure you that your hair is a uniform shade of brown," he said solemnly, "and that's not what I meant. Just…you're much more mature than I was at twenty-three."
"Really?" I asked. I didn't think I was particularly mature at all. "How so?"
"When I was your age-Christ, I do sound like an old man-anyway, I was still getting drunk and high every night."
I blinked. Now there was a bit of a personal revelation. Without really thinking about it, I replied, "I'm required to take enough drugs that I don't want any more…and I meant it when I said I'm not supposed to drink."
To his credit, he didn't ask for details, instead picking up his fork and twirling it in his fingers. There was a lot unsaid. He clearly had some baggage-but then, so did I. Perhaps, I allowed myself to muse, that was why I was so blindingly attracted to October. He wore his heart on his sleeve; what you saw was what you got. He was almost ridiculously stable.
I wanted to be a part of that.
No. I wanted to be that. The overly-peppy teenage waitress walked by, smilingly demanding to know if we needed anything.
None of the drinks had even been touched, so I sent her away with a polite dismissal. Still, her appearance had been enough to break whatever tension had enveloped the table, and Grey and I moved back onto lighter topics. They turned, unsurprisingly, to books. Fiction, in particular. We might have both liked historical fiction, but when it came to other genres, we emphatically disagreed.
"What do you like about sci-fi?" I asked, a while into the conversation, "It's so…unrealistic."
"I always thought that the point of reading was to escape from the mundane. Why would I like to read about the things I experience every day?"
"Because the society is familiar, the characters are relatable…We're not really arguing the merits of different genres, are we?" I asked suddenly.
"I believe we are," Grey remarked, "I, for one, am embarrassed for us."
"As am I…hey, look, there's Whatsherface with our food. I'll go get the other three?"
Sure enough, Whatsherface, whose name tag read "Jennifer" set out a little folding tray stand thing and began parceling out the plates and bowls.
"You do that," Grey said, helping her distribute the food. I got up and managed to find the bar, seeing October and Denmark at a table with a martini glass and a few bottles of light beer. Kenya was up at the bar, flirting with the bartender or something.
"Hey," I said, loud enough to catch their attention, "food's here."
"Oh," October said, sounding mostly sober, if smiling slightly blankly. "Good. I'm hungry. Denmark, go get Kenya."
He chugged the contents of a half-empty bottle, first. I made a face. "Kay," Denmark said, scooting his chair back loudly.
Minutes later, we were all gathered back at the table, laughing and joking over our dinner, and Grey was back to reticent-to-speak-at-best.
And me? I was awkward, trying too hard, smiling too wide. Because October was there, in his flamboyant normalness, and I, more than anything, wanted that.
Wanted him.
But I knew that it would never happen, so I just kept up the jokes, the quips, the sarcastic remarks.
I hadn't felt quite so cynical about love in a long time.