Part the Twentieth

Thom was sitting cross-legged at the front of the stage, guitar resting in his lap, picking at a bit of tape stuck to the floor in front of him. It felt odd to play in Cambridge, and it would never stop being odd; it was a place he still associated with their university days, visiting Colin, doing ridiculous things like punting on the Cam, and making unfavourable comparisons with Oxford.

He hadn't spoken properly to either Jonny or Colin since the disaster at the hotel in London, and as for Wesley, he was doing his best to pretend the other man didn't exist, despite the blond's knowing smiles and pointed remarks thrown in his direction. He'd even moved out of his and Jonny's shared room and into Ed's spare bed, not sure what he was trying to prove; Wesley had taken this as a clear sign of forfeit from Thom, and had promptly turned it into what seemed like a permanent arrangement. If Phil and Ed had any objections to Wesley's presence, they were keeping them to themselves. Thom pretended he hadn't seen the trapped expression on Jonny's face when he'd invited Wesley to join them, and he pretended he couldn't feel the niggling sensation of doubt gnawing away at his insides when Wesley and Jonny's hotel room door had slammed shut earlier in the afternoon, at check-in. And as for Colin...

Thom had almost given up trying to fathom the other man's reactions. He'd thought Colin would be pleased that Thom was encouraging Wesley's involvement with Jonny at the cost of his own relationship, but it didn't seem that way. The day before, when Wesley had announced Thom's 'kind invitation' over Jonny's birthday lunch at an expensive London restaurant, Thom had immediately looked to Colin for his approval, and seen none; outwardly, Colin had appeared happy, expressing his delight at Wesley's ongoing company, but he and Thom weren't old friends for nothing. Thom had seen the momentary clenching of Colin's jaw, the sudden flicker of confusion in his eyes as he'd inadvertently glanced over at Thom, and wondered if Colin recognised that he was starting to lose control of the little game he had set up for them.

He didn't want to admit it, but the thought of Colin losing control was genuinely frightening.

A roadie clomped past him, trailing power cables, and the sudden noise shook him out of his reverie. Jonny was standing on the far side of the stage, plugging in his guitar, and all around him the others were setting up in preparation for the soundcheck. He scrambled to his feet, pushing the tape back into place with the toe of his trainer, and tapped the microphone with one finger. “Is this thing on?” He turned a little to sneak a peek at Jonny, who caught him looking and gave him an encouraging smile that made his stomach clench. “OK then... right, I think we should run through You one last time...”

He kept a careful eye on Jonny all through the soundcheck. He'd half-expected that Jonny would show some outward signs of distress at the way he and Thom had ended, but he'd given no such indications, and Thom felt a little stupid. Perhaps he really hadn't meant as much to Jonny as he'd hoped – as Jonny had meant to him – and Jonny was just happy to have Wesley to go back to. Even if what Thom had walked in on at the hotel in London hadn't seemed like Jonny was happy to have Wesley at all.

Jonny was wearing another shirt that he appeared to have borrowed from someone four sizes bigger than him. Thom couldn't help feeling that he had something to hide, especially since it probably belonged to Wesley. He tamped down the dull ache of jealousy inside him at the thought and concentrated on remembering his lyrics, and when he was satisfied with the sound and they began to pack away in preparation for the support, he made his way over to the other man. He wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say to him, except that he needed to talk; but he was stopped dead in his tracks by the appearance of Wesley, who had clearly been waiting backstage all along, making a beeline for Jonny. He watched as the blond laid a careful hand on Jonny's shoulder, their heads, light and dark, dipping together briefly to exchange words and the vaguest brush of full lips over one high cheekbone, a blush rising in Jonny's skin as he looked around guiltily and caught Thom staring. And then the careful hand became proprietary, coaxing Jonny into the shadows beyond the bright stage lights, and Thom was left with the familiar sensation of being outmanoeuvred.

How could Jonny possibly be concerned about losing Thom when he had Wesley to go back to? Wesley was everything that Thom was not – confident, good-looking, self-assured, strong – and perhaps that was what Jonny really wanted: someone he could depend on to support him without being crippled by self-doubt. Someone who could be relied upon to take control. And the drugs... when he had overheard them arguing, it had sounded as though Jonny was used to it. And Wesley was the sparkly, glamorous aspect of that world, the aspect that seemed to draw strength from it, used it recreationally and to fuel self-indulgence. Thom couldn't compete with that; wasn't even sure why he was trying except that, to him, Jonny was worth it. He had to be.

He contemplated going back to the dressing room, but knew that the others would be there; if there was one person he wanted to spend less time around right now than Wesley, it was Colin. Instead he found himself taking a side door to the alleyway behind the venue, which was dark and windswept, lit only by the dull sodium glow of distant street lamps, the sort of place one could find all over the world, even in the comparatively middle-class civility of Cambridge. He fished a lighter and a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket and, shielding the flame from the wind, lit one with shaking fingers and took a deep drag. Smoking was something he rarely did now – he'd given it up, for the most part, at Jonny's request as he remembered – but at that moment his nerves were in need of some serious calming. Within minutes his hands had stopped trembling, and he concentrated on the dim glow of burning tobacco as he leaned against the wall and tipped his head back to rest on the cool bricks, closing his eyes.

He wasn't sure how much time passed before he heard the door open, and looked over to see Jonny watching him. His shoulders were hunched against the cold, arms crossed over his front and long fingers bunched in his shirtsleeves; his lips were kiss-swollen, hair slightly tousled as though someone else had run hands through it. He smiled anxiously, kicking the door shut behind him and sniffing the air.

“Smoking?” he murmured. “I thought you were giving up.”

“Y'know how it goes,” Thom mumbled, looking away.

“Can I...?”

Thom thrust the packet at him, waiting until Jonny had lit up before speaking again. “Colin's bad habits rubbing off on you?”

Jonny's eyes were dark, sparkling as they raked over Thom's face. He'd never had an addictive personality, could give things up whenever he pleased, much to Thom's chagrin. “Why are you hanging around out here on your own?” he asked. “It's freezing. You'll lose your voice or something.”

“I just wanted some time alone,” Thom muttered. He watched as Jonny raised the cigarette to his lips, mouth pursing a little while he sucked in the smoke; he made it look so maddeningly elegant, with his graceful fingers holding up the cigarette like a signal flare, his hair and face limned in ghostly grey. And there, where his sleeve fell back to the crook of his elbow, the dusky purple-blue of new bruises ringed his arm like a delicate bracelet. “You've got...” Thom continued, nodding towards them. He wasn't even shocked to find that he was unable to be surprised.

Jonny looked down at his exposed wrist with mild, detached curiosity, and effortlessly switched the cigarette to his other hand, shaking his sleeve down to hide the injured one.

“Why do you let him do that?” Thom asked, after a long, awkward pause.

“You don't have the right to ask,” Jonny said sharply, suddenly terse, drawing deeply on the cigarette and stifling a cough. “You can't – no. It's nothing to do with you.”

“It is if you're being hurt.”

“It's only on the outside.” Ash fluttered to the ground around their feet as Jonny waved his hand dismissively. “You know it's what I want... you know what you gave up. You don't have the right to demand answers.” He dropped the cigarette to the paving and crushed it under his heel, raising his gaze to Thom's. “We'll be on soon. Come inside and get warm, at least.”

As Thom followed Jonny back into the building, they were met by Wesley, who drew Jonny aside with an odd glance between the pair of them; Jonny looked back at Thom apologetically as they disappeared down the corridor. Thom ducked into the dressing room, where Ed was going through some half-hearted warm-up exercises, Phil was sharing out the water bottles and Colin was perched on the edge of a table, alternating between biting on a thumbnail and swinging his legs distractedly. It was another thing he shared with his brother, a complete inability to sit or stand still, especially in the nervous moments before a gig; but Colin's nerves normally manifested themselves in non-stop talking, and this time he was unusually silent.

Thom claimed a water bottle for himself and sipped at it to clear his throat of the odd, tight feeling it had developed while he listened to Jonny. “Stop eating yourself,” he said quietly, pulling Colin's hand away from his mouth. “What's wrong?”

Colin looked up at him and gave a short laugh. “What? There's nothing wrong.” He sniffed. “I thought you'd given up smoking.”

“That was Jonny,” Thom said: it was half true, really. “Why's Wesley hanging around? Every time I look over my shoulder he seems to be there.”

Colin shrugged, his mouth pulling down at the corners. “I don't know. You ask him; you're the one who invited him along, after all.”

Thom couldn't miss the faint accusatory tone in his voice, but it was too late to ask any more questions.

---

The stage was the only place where Thom could let go of his insecurities. Once the house lights went down and the spotlights went up, he could stop being afraid, because those people out there on the floor – they were there for the music. For the band. For him. And being special became so much more than a wish.

Once, he'd been one of those kids, packed into too-small venues like so many sardines; to think that now he was one of those people, the ones that people had posters of on their walls, the ones people wrote thank-you letters to, just for being there, was something that would never grow old. Sometimes, there was almost a sense of being untouchable, and it took a fall to realise that you weren't.

Perhaps Jonny was on that downward spiral, he thought.

They'd started out well. Despite the tensions, knowing that something, however inexplicable, was wrong with Colin, knowing that Jonny was pulling away from him, knowing that Wesley was lurking in the wings, he thought they could keep it together. At one point in the first few songs, he'd glanced over at Jonny and shown him the same encouraging smile that Jonny had given him during the soundcheck; but Jonny was barely paying attention, his gaze continually drifting to the offstage silhouette that Thom knew belonged to Wesley. And then, a wrong note here, a missed chord change there, a late cue, a dropped pick. Did the audience notice, Thom wondered; did they care? They didn't seem to. But the rest of the band would notice; they would care. He looked over at Jonny again. The younger man's jaw was set, his head down as though he was determined not to screw up again. And beyond him... Thom could almost sense Wesley's coolly supercilious smirk as Jonny fell apart between them.

It continued in this vein until the end of the set. Wesley's presence was tearing Jonny's concentration to shreds, and when it came to the last song, Jonny almost threw his guitar down in his rush to get away from the stage, with Colin hurrying after him.

“Get him out of here,” Thom hissed to Ed, motioning in Wesley's direction before taking off in pursuit of the Greenwoods.

He found them in the bathroom at the end of the corridor behind the stage. Jonny was leaning over one of the sinks, his face shockingly pale beneath a curtain of sweat-dampened hair, while Colin held a paper cup under the running tap and tried to press it into his brother's shaking fingers. His free hand was resting on Jonny's back, moving in small, soothing circles, and Thom pulled up short at the display of tenderness as Colin lifted the cup to Jonny's lips and coaxed him to drink.

“Jon... what the fuck was that?”

The pair of them turned as one to look at him. Jonny was barely fighting back tears, whereas Colin was white with anger. “Wesley,” Colin snapped. “You shouldn't have brought him with you.”

“It's nothing,” Jonny protested weakly.

“He seemed pretty OK with Wesley from where I was standing,” Thom said, unable to keep the coldness out of his voice. “Unless those bruises were from a friendly little wrestling match and not from Wesley pinning him down and fu-”

“I'm fine!” Jonny interrupted, at the same time as Colin said, “What bruises?”

“It's nothing,” Jonny insisted, backing out of his brother's grasp and draining the cup of water, although most of it spilled onto the tiled floor as his hands trembled violently. “All right. Um. We have an encore to do.”

“You're not going back if he's -” Colin began.

“He's not, I think Ed's taking care of that,” Thom said. “Er... are you sure about this, Jon?”

Jonny pushed his hair out of his eyes and nodded. “I'm fine. Really.”

But later, on stage, Thom couldn't help but notice that even with Wesley nowhere in sight, Jonny kept his head down, and that Colin's gaze never left his brother's back.