Chapter Text
Joel cuts through the smoke with purposeful steps, quick strides towards oblivion. He can feel pats on his back as he passes by, the familiar and affable words of commendation. Mumbling some of his own, he tips his head and holds his breath without a pause.
He’s wondered before if he’d ever grow used to the reeking smell of smoldering nicotine. It never happened. Still, he once thought about ignoring his basic instincts of disgust and giving into the popularized compulsion. Before, when he was more pliable and eager to impress. When all of this was new and hazy like a fever dream of fame and recognition, finding himself with a growing call for admiration, love?
Those who only know him as a widely spread image, caught on the vision of his semi-permanently creased brows, would never guess the want for approval beyond his steeled concentration. His hard and often aloof features hide an embarrassing amount of all-encompassing neediness, spreading through his limbs in insufferably warm waves of solitude. His heart and body yearn for intimacy, to hold and to be held, to be cherished as much as he is capable of cherishing. This has made of his songs a eulogy of romance and heartbreaking disillusion, something that critics have time and time again called sappy formulas of low-toned hymns one can’t help but begrudgingly give into . Well, maybe one critic, one time. But he’s repeated the snide words so many times in his head that they seem to mock him in every crowd, in every novel melody weaving itself in his head while he mindlessly strums on his equal parts loved and hated guitar.
It seems ironic that he saves this part of himself to his music, channelling so much of his emotions to the art that there is barely nothing left to actually fulfill his dreams of tenderness. By making his soul vulnerable, he toughens his body, hardens his skin. His bandmates know the niceness of his spirit even when he passes them by too quickly, running from vapor and conversation to retreat deeper into himself. He’ll order food and send gifts to them as a way to compensate, expressing his gratitude for their loyalty and professionalism in the only way he knows how.
Maybe things would be different if he had given into the temptation of acting out his sympathy, making himself be more alluring and “cool” at those earlier stages of his career. Maybe he’d be dragging on a cigarette and laughing at inside jokes alongside them at this moment.
If that was the case, he’d probably not be as famous as he is today. His unintentional mysteriousness along with passionate lyricism actually made his appeal grow, the sensitiveness of his songs not quite fitting the shade over his already dark eyes. He’s also aware of the lustful implications behind this widespread perception of him, even though he chooses to ignore it.
After leaving the smoke behind, he checks on his phone as he walks towards his dressing room. There’s a voicemail from Sarah, sweet tone of apologies for not making it in time, stuck at work and all that. She promises a visit soon, and the corners of his lips curl up in a small smile of anticipation.
This is all her fault, in the end. He’d still be a blissful suburban contractor with a covert knack for songwriting if it wasn’t for her cunning antiques, her softly rebellious nature. Secretively recording and uploading a video of him mindlessly singing and playing to the newly founded YouTube website may seem like a childish prank, but it actually came from a sharp recognition of his lack of courage in sharing his passions — causing her to do it for him. The questionable action should have raised in him a mortification so profound that it would have gotten her grounded for an eternity. But shame turned into astonishment when the video rapidly exploded, becoming one of the first people now call “virals” in this strange thing known as internet.
Security opens the door for him — something he never quite grew accustomed to, a protectiveness that doesn’t come from him, for a change. The lights are already on, and he has to tamper down his surprise upon seeing his manager pouring them both a glass of whiskey over the counter. It’s not her presence that makes him curious, but her seemingly calculated demeanor.
“Wrapped up the tour in great style,” Tess grips both glasses and walks towards the sofa after giving him a quick hug, greeting him with that cheshire smile of hers that always makes him alert and waiting for trouble. He also notices the flowers piling up in the corner of the room. Fan letters and other knickknacks.
“What is this?,” suspicion dripping from his voice even as he reluctantly makes his way to sit across from her. She shrugs, smile intact.
“Just celebration”. He almost rolls his eyes.
His sudden popularity should have been just that: a highly accessed video that would eventually lose steam and fall into forgetfulness. When reporters started calling left and right — how the hell did they even get his number? — he just stopped picking up the phone altogether, letting Tommy navigate the challenges of keeping in contact with the clientele and sorting through the schemers. He should have known his brother would also act behind his back upon being captivated by a particularly charming agent over the phone. The next thing he knew was that a lady from Boston was at his doorsteps, offering her clever services. And, woe be him, he was also bewitched by her confidence, the atmosphere of likeliness and friendship he could sense in her even then.
Tess’ sharp hazel eyes follow his movements as he accepts the glass to clink against hers, taking a well-deserved swig with a hum and resting his feet over the center table. God, he’s tired.
“What about Mark?,” he rests his head back and his glass over his knee, waiting for her response with his eyes closed. Such a luxury.
“Back at the hotel waiting for me. You can come over afterward for more drinks,” she offers, and he shakes his head. As much as he enjoys Tess and her husband’s company, he won’t be going anywhere. But she knows this already.
“Any news from Leo?”
He raises his head again just in time to see her eyes soften, her smile becoming proud and almost bashful.
“Settling nicely,” she says simply, and he assents, genuine happiness showing at the news.
Tess’ son was always what one would call a “theater kid”. In spite of his usual shyness, he’d light up easily when stepping on a stage. His interest in art has always made him look up to Joel, something that Mark never resented. They’ve all become a big family in the end, back and forth from different cities to stick together for far beyond professional connections.
Now, Leo is a freshman in the NYU school of arts. He sports just the same sweetness as the day when Joel met him, deserving of every bright thing that is certainly to come.
“I bet you’ve been paying Sarah to keep an eye on him,” he playfully suggests, and she snickers, putting her glass down and running a hand through her long auburn hair, its soft waves falling over her shoulder.
“As tempting as that may be, no, I trust him too much. Besides, she’s been busy enough all by herself,” Tess points out. “Who would’ve thought they’d end up in the same place?”
Sarah has always been the stark contrary to Leo. Headstrong and forward, even if incredibly soft. Joel’s career headlines made her interest in journalism grow very early on. Her brightness led her to Yale, and now to an internship in the New York Times headquarters. She jokes that one day she might as well write articles about Leo’s rising fame, and Joel sure hope she does.
He drinks again before setting his glass next to hers on the table. There’s no one who’d enjoy talking about their kids more than him, but he’s far too tired to keep stalling serious subjects like this.
“Why am I in trouble?,” he asks blatantly, leaning over his knees. Eyes narrowed, half tired, half searching. Tess scoffs, sustaining his stare.
“Who says you’re in trouble?” This time, Joel does roll his eyes.
“I know you’re just smoothing me over with your best whiskey. Just spill it,” he sighs, and she finally looks away. Of course, there’s reason to celebrate. But that’s not why they’re having this conversation, and he knows it.
He’s more nervous about it than he’d like to admit. Rumor and drama follow him around like a sentence, and he’s always waiting for the next scandal to try to break him down. All he wanted was to make music, but now he just yearns for peace and quiet. Would that be much to ask for?
“It’s come to my knowledge,” Tess starts, adding a dramatic pause to think of the best way to phrase things. Never a good start. “That Elaine is making a deal to write a book”. Joel stares at her for a few seconds, the words making no sense at all to him. Interpretation has never been his forte, which has made people call his writing all over the place . The bluntness of his lyrics seem to have appealed to many others, at least. “About you,” Tess adds, a little too late. It makes Joel laugh through his bewilderment.
“Tell her I wish my best of luck,” he shakes his head against his glass, chuckles still subsiding. Tess doesn’t seem to share his humor.
“You don’t come out of this well, Joel,” she warns him. He puts the glass back on the glass table with more force than needed, causing a loud clinking sound to echo. The joke is really not that funny, after all.
“Am I missing something? Because, as far as I checked, she left me and our daughter. If she’s looking for scraps now, that’s not on me,” he speaks through gritted teeth, far worse thoughts spinning around his head. Something along the lines of bloodsucking parasite bitch , but he’s too good at keeping his darkest sentiments to himself. A curse rarely leaves his lips, for the same reason he never gave into smoking, always worried about setting a good example for Sarah at home. She may be grown and away now, but this has long since become his essence.
Tess runs a hand over her forehead. She knew this conversation would be tiring all along, especially now, when he’s just wrapping up a months-long tour. But this is urgent, and needed.
“That’s why she won’t be honest. She’ll come up with the most absurd of things, and people will buy it in the name of gossip,” Tess reminds him, and he waves his hand dismissively.
“She just wants her minute of fame, which I’ve refused to give her before. Let her have it,” he mutters the last part into his glass again, emptying it up. He tries to ignore Tess’ sharp stare, but to no avail. “What?,” he finally snaps.
“It’s time for you to stop protecting her,” she states calmly, and Joel becomes livid. In his mind, he’s pacing across this room in rage. Maybe even leaving it altogether, letting Tess and her slightly admonishing assessments behind. But he’s too angry and too tired to move. He’s been standing for two hours on a stage, and he’s a middle-aged man. Perhaps he’s grown too weak as well.
“I never did such thing,” he tries to keep his tone level, but his eyes are scorching. Tess purses her lips, a sympathetic expression that only infuriates him further.
“You’ve avoided telling this story for too long now,” at least her voice is factual, almost clinical. “It’s been public speculation for years, but there’s no use keeping it in the shadows any longer. Sarah is a grown woman who understands this matter with clarity, so it’s not her you’re protecting, in the end,” Joel huffs at this, seeing no sense in any of it, indignation and exhaustion clouding his mind like a cigarette he never smoked. Tess shifts to sit a little closer, resting her gentle hand over his on his knee. He stares at it in silent protest, but doesn’t take his hand away. “If you don’t claim your story, she’ll do it for you. Then you’ll have no control over it”.
The truth of this scares him, because Elaine knows him too much. Knew him. Knew him for all his teen years, knew his secrets, traumas and insecurities he was never again able to share so easily as he did with her, when he was young and naive. As much as he’d like to think of himself as toughened and unfazed, she still knows how to hurt him, and won’t shy away from doing it. A whole goddamn book of swords designed to sink into the cracks of his armor.
“And what would you have me do?,” he finally asks Tess. Not because she’s grown to be his manager, but because she’s his friend. “I already sing about being left behind every other night,” he still can’t help but add bitterly, his face contorting into a grimace. The start of a migraine.
Tess knows he trusts her, but that he won’t trust her suggestion very easily.
“I’ve gotten in contact with the publishing house, it’s a big one. They won’t indulge her if we offer them something else,” she puts it as simply as she can, waiting for his reaction. He stares at her again, confusion over his features. Then he gathers the strength to finally stand up with a wry laugh that only causes him to wince further, two fingers flying to rest on his temple.
“I can’t write goddamn literature,” finding it all utterly ridiculous. He wonders if this is some kind of elaborate prank as he walks to find some painkillers to down with more whiskey, refilling his glass. The most hardcore he’s ever reached, even in this wretched business.
“You wouldn’t be the one writing it, of course,” Tess says, a little worn out. Joel shakes his head.
“What, some fancy writer that the publishing house will push? Another sensationalist bastard? Absolutely not”.
She remains impassive, watching his movements. It always aggravates him, her coolness. Because he knows she’s usually right, and is just waiting to show it to him.
“ Not someone from the publishing house,” she cocks her head, and he leans over the counter to drink. Putting distance between them, as if that would be enough to avoid her words. “Tommy put me in contact with an independent ghostwriter. She’s new, quite perceptive. Fresh eyes, still unstained by that type of greediness”. Joel almost snorts at her appraise, knowing well she’s just trying to make the offer sound more appealing.
“In other words, inexperienced,” he smirks derisively. Then he frowns. “Where the hell did Tommy even meet a ghostwriter?”
“He actually met her sister along with Maria in that cultural exchange program.” Oh, great , Joel thinks. Then his fate lies in the hands of friend’s relative Tommy met in Malaysia, or whatever shady country it was in the end. “They all became really close, and Maria assisted the sisters in a big case upon their return”.
Joel’s forehead creases even more as he tries to remember this big case . A vivid memory comes rushing into his mind, Tommy telling him about this woman — Joel’s now sister-in-law — he met on that stupid volunteer program he decided he needed to apply to, a divorcee mother trying to find herself. One of the reasons he was so entranced by Maria was the kindness she showed towards another woman upon hearing her tragic story, deciding to use her expertise in the legal area to help her.
“Was it the orphanage scandal?,” he finally pinpoints it. Tess assents.
Joel remembers feeling sick when hearing the coverage, something that many have experienced at the time. A relatively simple case of neglect turned out to uncover a wide net of abusers tied to the orphanage’s founder and even his family before him. Many rich, influential people with dark secrets and a seemingly unrelated obsession with the Apocalypse. An underground bunker was discovered on the grounds, followed by many others spread through Washington. Upon seeing the place on television — packed with endless supplies for survival —, Joel couldn’t help but think that it would indeed be the best place to hide in after a world-altering emergency.
“It’s sounding a lot like charity,” he concludes after some time. The tragic, unfortunate past has nothing to do with his current situation. He’s not planning on hiring every damn orphan in the world just to make them feel good, after all.
“It’s not,” Tess shakes her head in time with a snort. “It wouldn’t be her first job. And I’ve read her material, it’s excellent”.
He takes a deep breath, burying his face in his hands. It doesn’t matter, in the end, if this is her first or millionth job. If she’s an orphan or a spoiled brat. If she’s young, old, nice, boring, sweet, rude. A reckless thing or a housewife. What matters is that he doesn’t want to do this . He doesn’t want to tell his life to a stranger and let them publish it for the whole world to judge. The other alternative is not any better, so what is he to do?
Joel has been in crossroads before, but he feels that most of his decisions were not actually his. When Elaine got pregnant, what other choice did he have but to leave everything behind and marry her? When she left, what choice did he have but to hold onto Sarah; what else could he have done but loving and caring for her? When that video exploded and Tess appeared at his doorsteps, offering him the fulfillment of a buried, lifelong dream, could he have refused? When complications such as this appear, he sometimes wishes he had. But he regrets his career just as much as he regrets Elaine: with the certainty that he would do it again, because it earned him Sarah.
He sometimes feels ungrateful. Because how many people in the world have the privilege to say that their childhood dreams came true? Or that their art has reached millions of people? But would he be unhappy, if he was just a normal man, with an ordinary, boring life? Maybe that would suit him better. Perhaps he should have held onto that choice, refused fame like it was suffocating smoke.
But maybe it is only human nature, that one always wants more . He has so much, and he still can’t help but wonder. In moments like this, he feels desperately, utterly alone. But they are not as cruel as those moments of stark imagination, when he pictures himself with truly nothing . Images that flash through his mind of emptiness and anguish, seconds that feel like another life, one where the world is decadent and even more violent.
He gathers everyone feels this way, that we all envision alternative realities and let ourselves be caught in them. There were times when, upon hugging Sarah, he felt gut-wrenching loss and grief as if she wasn’t there at all, wilting away in his arms. Then he hugged her tighter, until she huffed or laughed, and it meant she was real. That they were both still here, together. But those feelings were also real, real enough for him to put them into song, melancholic and grave.
Life has led him to yet another inescapable situation, and perhaps there’s no choice in it. Are our choices really our choices, in the end? Or are things meant to happen in a certain way, inexplicable and unavoidable? Even our mistakes, our fears, our pain. Life — or at least this one — could have led him to any other moment, but it led him here. So he wonders if the things that are meant to happen will simply happen, no matter what is our say in it. Or how much we try to ignore them.
He feels Tess approaching, at last, her soft voice reaching him from closer.
“I’ll schedule a meeting between the two of you, and we’ll see where we go from there, alright?” He nods faintly, because what else is he supposed to do?
She pats his back affectionately before turning to gather her things. He raises his head to watch her leave, but she approaches to plant a friendly kiss to his cheek before doing so. He frowns as she makes way to the door, feeling like he’s forgetting something, watching as Tess glances at her wristwatch briefly while already halfway out the room.
“Happy birthday, Joel,” she turns to him with a knowing smile, “let me know if you’ll want to have a real celebration, after all”.
After she’s gone, he feels his cellphone buzzing over the table. Sarah, certainly, eager to wish him a happy birthday. He can envision her in the bustling city, waiting for the new day to start, to call him and joke about cakes they’ll still eat together. To say that she misses him, and to schedule her visit. He won’t keep her waiting for long, of course. But, for a few brief seconds, he’ll let himself savor his glass of whiskey. And, for as long as they last, he’ll feel that he isn’t drinking alone.