And So We Fall

Tinker, Tailor

TW// mentions of suicide, suicidal thoughts

"For fuck's sake! The bus is due to leave in ten minutes! Where is he?" William looks around frantically, pacing in front of the dented blue and white tour bus that waits patiently on the street. It's the best Will could afford with the limited budget the record label gave him. The scruffy driver honks the horn for the seventh time, making William become more flustered.

"Nobody's seen or heard from him for weeks." Ray says in his soothing voice. "What's the chance he'll show up now?"

"He's had knowledge of this tour for months! He can't just - just blow us all off like this!" William's beginning to hyperventilate, so I place a hand on his shoulder.

"Brent can replace him, okay? He knows the songs, and he's a roadie, so we don't have to hire and train anyone new." I don't know if I'm trying to convince Will or myself.

Maybe Dallon won't show at all. I'm not really expecting him to. He dropped off the face of the earth after I woke up in his bed that morning. I had only heard of his disappearance later that day when William had informed me that Dallon had checked out of his room and left no trace. I hadn't expected anything different. Heartbreak leaves only two choices: to deal with it or to run. And Dallon ran. Because I broke his heart. I really should start keeping track of how many lives I ruin.

William tells us to get on the bus, biting his nails and searching up and down the street. I put my foot down on the first step, gripping the handrail with one hand and my duffel bag with the other. I'm about to move to the second step when I hear loud footsteps pounding up behind me. I turn my head and see a man running towards us, light brown hair tousled from the wind - or something else. In his left hand he's clutching a bag that's overflowing with clothes, and in his right he has his favorite cherry red Fender bass guitar. So. Dallon decided to show up.

William rushes up to him, overwhelming him with questions of his whereabouts and if he's okay. Of course he's not okay. Dallon mumbles a "sorry" to William, then his eyes settle on me.

His previously bright green eyes are dull and have bruise-colored bags weighing them down. He looks down quickly as I regain my footing and ascend the bus's stairs.

Dallon won't answer anyone's questions, at least not honestly. The best William gets of where he was is "away". William is the only person he's decided he's going to speak to, too. He sits next to Will on the couch opposite Ray, Andy, and me, reading a book and occasionally whispering something in William's ear, to which William will either nod or shake his head. Will looks just as confused as the rest of us, shrugging his shoulders when I give him a particularly questioning stare.

I study Dallon and develop my own hypothesis. His eyes are shifty, despite pretending to be concentrated on the words of Irwin Shaw. He's reading Rich Man, Poor Man. He doesn't own very many books, and I know for a fact that is not one of them. The cover looks worn and stained, as if it had a previous owner. Dallon shifts his position, causing the book pages to flap open and expose the inside front cover. I catch the initials "I.W."

He once told me, back when we very very young, that his cousin Ingrid lived in the Castro District of San Francisco. I told him that was impossible - only gay men live in the Castro. He said that I was wrong. The Castro is where people go when they need to leave. He told me Ingrid had to leave because her mother died and she couldn't stand the deserts of Salt Lake City anymore. I look up at Dallon, at his worn features and stiff expression. Dallon went to the Castro to leave. But a gay man doesn't go to the Castro just to leave. His intents are always altered, and maybe he's persuaded, or maybe he's the persuader, but a gay man will find his way into someone else's bed in the Castro.