Ash had been right—Willow's two latest albums were on shuffle in the back rooms of the venue. The after party spilled out into the VIP lounge, where people Hollis knew well and people he didn't relaxed and drank. Some sat in booths while others leaned against the walls. They all joked and told tour stories, including the incident early on in the tour when they'd left Hollis behind in the hotel thinking he'd already been asleep in the back of the bus. They all laughed about it now.
Hollis didn't.
He sat in the corner, the muffled pulse of music in his chest, the world tilting slightly beneath him. His bandmates floated somewhere across the room, untouchable, and Hollis was already too far gone to follow. His mask was off, leaving him raw and exposed in the crowd of musicians and techs and stage crew. He sunk deeper into the chair, rubbing his temples, as if it might erase the truth of his own voice. How he dismissed everyone's concerns. The way he'd pushed Ash away, both tonight and so many times as of late.
Scenes from the past flickered in Hollis's mind like damaged film. Late-night jam sessions, pure and full of dreams, before the complications and criticism. His mother's voice, offering them wisdom and warnings cloaked in humor: "Don't let them paint you into a corner, darlings," she'd say, covered in acrylics and primer, pale green eyes twinkling. It had been back when Hollis and Ash had sat behind a foldout table in the garage, holding auditions for a drummer and a bassist. Several boys from their class had shown up, even a couple of girls and a few people a year older than them. But most couldn't hold a candle to Hollis's standards, so he waved them all away. Ash didn't complain, though. He never did. He simply rested his chin in his palm, gave them all sympathetic smiles, and thanked them for coming.
This sort of routine continued until Hollis had said no to just about every musician in their middle school. By sophomore year, not even Johnny Jackson, the best bassist any of them knew, had made it through three measures of Hollis's original song before Hollis stood up, shaking his head, and left the theater of their school without a word. None of them was the same as Hollis. They had no heart in their music, and anyone who didn't have as strong and bitter a drive as Hollis didn't deserve his time.
He felt music running through his veins. It was everywhere—in the trees, in the ocean, and in the cities. He could look at someone and tell whether or not the music they played pumped through the corners of their heart and rushed throughout their body by the looks on their faces when they played, by the quality of the music they produced. It wasn't that the notes needed to be perfect or the rhythm be flawless and synced. It was a piece of one's soul that Hollis was looking for. It would come through the instrument and float through the air along with the melody, and if one understood music the way Hollis did, they could see it too. Hear it, feel it. It was what resulted from blood, sweat, and tears over piano keys when everyone else was out enjoying their life. It was forcing heavy eyes to remain focused on sheet music in the middle of the night, when everyone else was long asleep. It was everything to Hollis, and Ash was the only friend who'd ever believed in it. And when Hollis's mom got sick again, Ash kept the dream alive while Hollis withered away.
Her cancer had come back with a vengeance. So they drove an hour to the hospital to bring her flowers, food, and her favorite tea from the coffee shop near where Ansley Street was now. They visited her and laughed and talked. But Hollis stayed with her overnight and missed work and studio time, attempting to write songs as he watched the traffic out the huge window. But, one evening, when his mother was nearing the end of her fight, the sun had been setting, the city lights came on, and Hollis set down his pen. He watched the night come alive for a while before hiding his face inside his elbow, draped over the back of the chair. He cried like that for a long time, not noticing that Ash had come in until Ash's arms were already around him.
Ash had been there through the tours, the late nights, the stupid fights that made it onto records that led to sold out albums and shows. Ash had been there through it all—unwavering and loyal to a fault.
The room wavered in and out of focus, blurred by more than just dim light. Ash's laugh sounded from across the room, Linden's distinctive drawl, each voice a pinpoint reminder of how far away they all were.
The drink in Hollis's hand felt too heavy. People moved like shadows, blurring into the thick air, the hum of voices distant and unreal. Someone from the crew shouted something, laughter erupting like a wave through the room, but Hollis didn't catch the words anymore. He didn't want to. He knew the sound of those words, the shape of them, the way they twisted in his stomach. So he closed his eyes against the dizziness, and when he opened them again, a new figure stood before him.
"So, what's it like, having a sold out show at Ansley Street?"
Hollis was too confused to know whether or not he'd stifled his scowl. The figure's features were sharpened by disdain, and was the frontman of Willow's opener, This Side Up, Hollis knew that much. Though the name was a jumble in Hollis's mind.
Drunk and half-hidden beneath a dirty blonde fringe, the vocalist looked down at Hollis. His smile was a slow stretch as he slid into the empty space next to Hollis, forcing him further into the corner.
Darian—his name finally came to Hollis. He shrugged.
"Haven't thought much about it, honestly."
"Well, it's nice to see you come out of hiding for once." Darian's voice teetered between jest and jeer as he gestured towards the absence of the mask. "I didn't recognize you for a second."
There was a challenge in the statement, sharpened by the sloppy confidence of too many drinks. Even in an inebriated state, Hollis knew where this was going. Too many times with too many bands he'd had this encounter—words from other musicians that had shaped the way Hollis viewed himself, carried himself, until the words began to rot everything away inside him. It was always a quip about the mask, or the lyrics, or the infamous show after his mom died when he broke down on stage during "Even When." Videos and photos and words of sympathy circulated for days, but so did apathy, and it wasn't long after that when Hollis picked up the bottles and never put them down.
Hollis's fingers tightened around his cup. He looked away, fixing his eyes on a stained spot on the carpet, and took a slow, deliberate drink. The beverage tasted metallic, sour on his tongue.
"Wouldn't want to intimidate anyone," he finally slurred, the dry edge of his tone almost drowned by a burst of noise from the other side of the room.
Darian leaned in closer. "Takes a lot more than a grown man in a butterfly mask to intimidate me."
Hollis met Darian's eyes. Anger and alcohol began to churn, a potent mix Hollis knew too well these days. But he held it all back, refusing to give Darian the satisfaction.
"Is that so," Hollis said, though the effort of staying calm set his teeth on edge.
"Not everyone can hide behind a gimmick," Darian said. "Some of us have to use our skills."
Hollis drew back. "A gimmick?"
"You all wear those things to cover up your insecurities. Why else would you need a mask to keep your fans at a distance?" Darian said, and Hollis's blood began to boil. "You're a smart guy—you know if they knew the real you, they wouldn't care about you."
Hollis felt the crack, could almost hear it—the sound of himself snapping.
"If you think everyone buys your mystery, you're wrong. Everyone in this room knows you just can't take the hate that comes with your throne. That's why you try to hide from the world."
Hollis set his cup down with an unsteady hand, a few drops sloshing onto the table, and turned to face Darian head-on.
"I guess you'd know all about things missing," Hollis said, his voice carrying more weight than the insult. "Since your talent decided not to make an appearance this whole tour."
The atmosphere shifted around them. Darian stiffened, surprise mingling with anger, but Hollis didn't flinch. He felt Darian's burning stare, the hatred sparking just beneath the surface, and it fueled the fire.
"If it weren't for this tour, you guys would have been nothing but one-hit-wonder nobodies."
Darian said nothing, speechless as Hollis slid out from behind the table, leaving his cup behind. He met Darian's eyes with the fire the nobody-vocalist had lit all by himself.
"So you tell me," Hollis said, "what's it like, taking a backseat to actual skill?"
Around them, the noise of the party blurred into a static hum. Darian stood and came face to face with Hollis. The tension stretched thin, too thin, and Hollis waited for the inevitable break.
Darian's shove sent Hollis reeling, drinks tipping off the table that crashed onto the stained carpet. For a moment, Hollis was weightless, his thoughts caught in the spin of adrenaline and alcohol. The cup of anger he tried to keep from overflowing had shattered, and the chaos rushed in to fill the empty space.
His limbs moved before his mind could catch up and he felt the sharp jolt of his fist against Darian's face, a satisfaction cut short by Darian's weight slamming into him. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, the dull thud echoing through Hollis's ribs.
Glasses toppled and shattered, chairs crashed against each other as people scattered. Hollis didn't care. The noise only fed the anger inside him. He swung again and Darian twisted, trying to get the upper hand, but Hollis was quick. Fueled by years of pain and one drink too many, he kept going. He heard shouts, angry and shocked, blurring together. He tasted the tang of blood mixed with stale air, and he knew without seeing that it was his own.
A familiar voice yelled his name, but he barely registered it. His focus was on the fight, running on instinct, on anger that demanded to be let out. People surrounded them now, not just watching but trying to break them apart. The blur of faces closed in, shouting, grabbing, pulling at Hollis. He shook them off, vision swimming, and went for Darian again.
"You're a coward!" Darian's voice cut through, his own bandmates straining to hold him back.
Hollis felt the words like another blow. The pain twisted into more anger, more fuel for the flames. He threw another punch, but the distance between them grew as Ash and Linden finally managed to drag him away.
They gripped his arms, voices overlapping in a jumble of urgency.
"Hollis, stop! Enough! You're done!"
He heard them, clearer and closer, but it was too late for their words to matter. The fight had already been fought, and all that was left was the bitter aftermath.
Hollis's breathing was ragged, the room tilting dangerously as he tried to catch his balance. A line of blood dripped from his lip and the corner of his eye, the taste metallic and sharp. His vision cleared just enough to see Darian on the other side of the room, held back but still shouting. Still throwing accusations like punches.
The silence that followed was louder than the fight itself. Everyone was watching, eyes wide with disbelief and what Hollis already decided was judgment. His heart hammered in his chest. He looked around, meeting the stunned gazes, the absence of his mask branding him with the truth of who he really was—unhidden. Exposed. The realization settled in and he pulled himself from Linden and Ash. He felt Ash's grip loosen just enough for him to slip away, barely heard Linden's voice calling him back. The alcohol and adrenaline had combined in a sickening rush, spurring his feet faster out of the silent judgment of the room.
He shoved through the door, past a cluster of crew members who glanced up, surprised. Words and eyes followed him, but he didn't slow. He veered through the narrow hall until the door clacked open and the night air hit him in a rush.
He bent over, gulping down the cold air in painful, shuddering breaths. The chill bit through his hoodie, cut through the sweat on his skin, but he still felt like he was burning. He started moving again, putting more distance between himself and the fight, the scene, the truth of everything that had just happened. He knew better—crazed fans would be waiting at their bus, hovering in the night like shadows, wanting to know him—see him for who he really was.
And he couldn't allow that.
He brushed against the rough brick of the building as he made his way around the opposite side, ambling down some street he didn't know. But he didn't let it stop him, he couldn't. The anger was still there, pulsing beneath his skin, but something else crept in—the truth behind Darian's words, the disappointment behind Ash's eyes, both twisting it all into a different kind of pain.