I Swear That I Can Hear You In the Wind - A Sequel

Track Seven.

I sat there in shock, trying to process his words and what he was doing. He was moving quickly, shoving his belongings in his bags.

"Vic, wait," I finally croaked, snapping out of my haze and lunging in his direction. "Just stop and think about this for a minute." My hand fell to rest on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off, continuing his frantic pace, ignoring my pleas.

I wanted this, in a way, to have Vic home with me, with us. But not like this, not on these terms. He would come to regret cancelling the tour, and he would be miserable. He may even come to resent me over it.

"Victor, please," I practically begged, and he paused for a moment, though his body remained tense. "Let's talk about this."

He sighed, leaning back against the bunks, remnants of tears lingering in his eyes. "I've made up my mind, Lyla," he said finally. "I thought this is what you wanted?"

"Vic," I breathed leaning my forehead against his chest. He wrapped his arms around me lightly. "In a way it is," I replied. "But not like this. This is your life -"

He cut me off. "Not anymore." His voice was flat. His mind was spinning inside his head, as was mind, and I was struggling to wrap my head around what was happening.

"You can't just stop the tour, Vic. What about the guys? And the fans?"

"If they care about me they will understand," he responded coyly.

"Understand what?" My head snapped to the right and I realized we were no longer alone. Mike was standing near the entrance of the bus, a beer clutched tightly in his tattooed hand. He noticed Vic's overflowing bags and his face scrunched in confusion. "What happened?"

"I'm going home," Vic responded nonchalantly. "The tour is done."

Mike's eyes look like they were going to bug out of his head. "What the fuck do you mean, Vic?" he hissed, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the bottle for dear life.

Vic looked at his brother, shrugging his shoulders. "Just what I said, Mike. I'm not going to continue to be a disappointment to my kids."

I was waiting for the explosion, for Mike to yell at Vic and Vic to yell at Mike, but it never happened. Mike sat down, resting his forearms on his scrawny legs.

"Alright, bro," Mike finally said quietly. "I trust you to make the best decision. It's not the end of the world. We can make up the dates later this year."

"No, we won't," Vic replied, and Mike and I both turned to look at him. "I'm done touring. For good."

And it was then, with those five words, that all hell broke loose.

-----------------------
I crept into the living room, Vic's sleeping form barely visible in the lingering moonlight. His mouth was wide open, a small stream of drool making its way down his chin, his hat strung over the arm of the couch, his hair splayed wildly about his face. He smelled of whiskey of beer, and the bags under his eyes were heavy and prominent. Even in his sleep he looked sad, and it was breaking my heart to know that I was partially to blame. I sat next to him on the couch, glancing at the clock, noticing it was 3 am, and I sighed, running my hands through my hair.

Vic shifted next to me, his feet landing in my lap, and I untied his laces and removed his shoes, so subtly that he didn't stir again. A tear escaped my eye as I thought back to the events over the last few weeks. Mike hadn't spoke to Vic, or me, since Vic had announced that he would no longer tour. Mike had lost it, calling Vic selfish and unreasonable, saying more hurtful things than anyone should have to hear. Tony and Jaime had been extremely supportive, but there was no reasoning with Mike.

Vic tried to put on a brave face and pretend that it didn't bother him, but I knew better, I knew it did. Mike was his brother, his best friend; I knew this was killing him. But he wouldn't budge. He kept telling me it was okay, that he was happy with being home, but again I could see through him. All I kept wishing for, night after night, was for things to go back to the way they were.