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Order this writing in the collection book Breaking Silences available for only 1650 |
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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Dream
Laine Hissett-Bonard
Davey awoke to the sound of someone groaning, and his first soupy, waking thought was that one of the other guys had smuggled a groupie onto the tour bus again. He was ready to throw back the covers, stalk over to Steve’s bunk — because, on the rare occasions it occurred, it was always Steve — and pour a glass of cold water over the curtain, when the groan came again, and that time, it spoke more of pain than of an illicit sexual encounter. Davey froze, squinting into the inky darkness of his own bunk, his fist curled loosely against his sternum and his teeth tightly clenched as he attempted to discern the source of the sound.
“No, noÉ”
Davey lifted himself to his elbows, frowning. The voice wasn’t deep enough to be Bill’s, and it came from the opposite end of the bank of bunks than where Kevin and Steve were located, which left one person.
“Don’t goÉ”
Carefully drawing his long legs from beneath the covers, Davey checked to be sure he hadn’t crawled into bed naked, as he was often wont to do when he was drunk — which he certainly had been when he climbed into bed hours before — and, discovering his boxer briefs in place, he slid aside the curtain separating his bunk from the rest of the bus and slid out, maneuvering carefully to avoid knocking his head on the low ceiling of the bunk.
Moving with almost feline grace, Davey tiptoed up the short expanse of carpet to the last bunk, pausing uncertainly outside the curtain with one hand on the wall bracing his sleepy, lanky form. He stood there for several minutes, listening to the bunk’s occupant draw and release slow, heavy breaths in sleep, and, certain he had dreamed the entire thing, Davey was just about to slink sheepishly back to his bunk when the sound came again, a low, pained moan that rose the fine hair on his arms.
“NooooÉ. not yetÉ”
“Pete.” Davey’s whisper sliced cleanly through the silence of the bus, and he winced, lowering the volume slightly as he drew aside the curtain and whispered his bandmate’s name. “Petey? Are you okay?”
“Mmm.” Davey could barely make out Pete’s shape in the dimness, but he could see just enough to determine that Pete was on his side, facing the back wall of the bunk, and appeared to be curled up into a tight ball, his long hair tied into a loose knot at the nape of his neck. He didn’t move except for the measured rise and fall of his shoulder, and when he groaned again, Davey bit his lip, winced a little, and reached into the bunk to place his hand on Pete’s bare shoulder, giving him a gentle shake.
“Pete.”
Pete jumped beneath Davey’s hand, and Davey withdrew his arm, frowning in concern. “Who’s that?” Pete whispered hoarsely.
“It’s me. Davey.”
“What’re you doing?” Pete rolled onto his back, turning his face toward Davey and blinking several times into the dim, diffused light leaking through the wide opening in the curtains. His hand fell from his belly, where it rested, to land on the bed, his knuckles brushing Davey’s knee.
“You were making some noise,” Davey said, blushing slightly as he realized his words could easily be misconstrued. “I mean, talking in your sleep, groaning, that kind of thing. Like you were having a bad dream.”
Pete yawned, sitting up slightly and rummaging behind his head until he found a crumpled pack of cigarettes beneath his pillow. “I need a smoke,” he said drowsily. “I’m going outside.”
Davey raised an eyebrow. “It’s ten below. You’re not going outside in your skivvies. Let’s just go to the front of the bus and close the door so we don't wake the guys.”
Nodding, Pete swung his legs out of the bunk and followed Davey toward the front of the bus, both of them taking pains to move quietly until they closed themselves into the front compartment of the bus, where Davey began rifling through the cabinets for alcohol and Pete slid into one of the bench seats next to the table, snapping his lighter and cupping his hand around the flame until the tip of his cigarette glowed in the dimness of the room, lit only by the dim fluorescent bulb over the sink.
“Time is it?”
Davey glanced at the clock over the microwave as he absently fastened a ponytail at the back of his head, effectively pinning his mass of longish, thick blond hair back from his face. “Nearly six.”
“Shit.” Pete yawned again, holding his cigarette between two sagging fingers. “I feel like I’ve only slept five minutes.”
“You didn’t sound like you were getting much rest,” Davey said dryly, carrying two glasses of whiskey to the table and taking a seat across from Pete. The table was small and rather cramped, with barely enough room for both sets of gangly legs beneath it, and Davey’s bare foot brushed over both of Pete’s before he finally found a comfortable position.
Pete blew out a stream of smoke, staring down at his hands where they lay on the table in front of him, and he looked so sheepish that Davey couldn’t help himself; his curiosity was nearly ready to eat a hole in him from the inside out.
“What were you dreaming about, anyway?” Davey forced it to come out casually, although he was apprehensive about asking. Ridiculous, that feeling, especially after all the years the two had known each other, but Davey was a notoriously private person, and he rarely ventured outside his shell to obtain personal information about anyone who didn’t offer it up freely to begin with.
In this case, however, he simply had to know.
“I don’t remember.” Pete shrugged awkwardly, one finger pushing at a small pile of ash that had shaken free of his cigarette. “It must’ve been nothing.”
Davey sipped his drink. “Didn’t sound like nothing.”
“Why are you hounding me?” Davey’s eyes snapped to Pete’s face at his heated exclamation, only to find Pete staring uncomfortably out the window, beyond which the first strains of faint morning light were visible just above the snow-covered horizon.
Taken aback, Davey cleared his throat, setting down his glass and lifting one hand to his mouth to gnaw at one already stubby fingernail. “IÉ I’m sorry. I meanÉ I wasn’tÉ I’m sorry.”
Pete huffed out a quick, heavy breath, expelling a cloud of smoke with it, and shook his head in obvious frustration, remaining silent as Davey’s discomfort grew exponentially for every second that passed until he pushed his glass even further away and moved to slide out of the bench seat.
“I’ll leave you alone,” Davey said softly, damning his face for growing red again, but Pete reached out, quick as a viper, and latched onto Davey’s wrist with his graceful pianist’s fingers.
“Wait.” Pete’s pleading hazel eyes flickered to Davey’s face for a bare instant before returning to the surface of the table, his hand falling away from Davey’s wrist in the same moment. “You don’t have to go. Unless you want to, I mean.”
“Do you want me to?” Davey began to feel as if he had tripped and landed smack in the middle of an Abbott and Costello routine from hell.
Pete shook his head miserably, and Davey paused for just a moment before sliding back into his seat and picking up his glass again.
“Is there something you need to talk about?” Davey asked carefully, watching the surface of the whiskey ripple slightly with the force of his breath as he held the glass to his lips. He couldn’t see Pete except in his peripheral vision, but he caught the sudden and dejected slump of Pete’s shoulders all the same.
“Well.” Pete stubbed out his cigarette, stubbornly refusing to look up from his ashtray, and Davey risked a glance across the table to find Pete chewing dejectedly on his lower lip, absentmindedly twisting his finger in a lock of his impossibly long, glossy brown hair where it had escaped his haphazard ponytail while he slept. “NoÉ I guess notÉ I’m just sorry I snapped at you, because you didn’t deserve it.”
Davey sighed, reaching across the table to pick up Pete’s disheveled pack of cigarettes, toying with the cellophane still clinging to the bottom of the pack. “That’s what I get for prying.”
Pete grinned a little, shaking his head. “You weren’t prying. You were asking a question. It’s my problem if that question needs an answer I’m not really comfortable giving.”
Davey nodded silently, his brain racing with half-formed thoughts, although he spoke none of them. It wasn’t like Pete to be mysterious, especially not to that degree, and he had already begun imagining a scenario in which Pete received instructions from his dog on how to kill his bandmates when Pete spoke again, softer this time, but certainly loud enough for Davey to hear.
“I was dreaming about you, okay?”
Davey’s fingers paused mid-crinkle, and he cautiously set the cigarette pack back on the table, meticulously centering it directly between his hands and Pete’s, which lay, clasped, in front of him. Finally, he looked up, only to find Pete with his face cast downward, watching him carefully through his eyelashes, and Pete looked away immediately.
“Was I hurting you?”
Pete chuckled softly. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Davey was nearly certain that Pete’s face colored when he said, “Not exactly.”
Diplomatically remaining silent, Davey took a deeper swallow of his whiskey, waiting for Pete to continue, but when he didn’t, Davey found himself at a complete loss for words, unable to formulate a leading question that wouldn’t seem too nosy. Instead, he swigged the remainder of his whiskey from his glass and rose abruptly, crossing the tiny space to the counter again and pouring himself a second drink.
“Need a—”
“You were—”
They both stopped speaking then, grinning uncomfortably. Davey held up the whiskey bottle, and Pete nodded, holding out his glass; he didn’t say another word until Davey finished pouring his refill, but when Davey turned away to place the bottle on the counter, Pete spoke again, addressing Davey’s bare back.
“You were leaving before I wanted you to go.”
Davey paused, then turned back to the table, resuming his seat across from Pete, who still bore his former awkward grin. “Leaving where?” Davey asked finally, choosing his words carefully in fear of digging too deep.
“My house, or my hotel room — I’m not sure which,” Pete said, his response quicker than Davey expected. “All I know is, I woke up — in the dream, I mean — and I saw you getting dressed, and I was all upset. I keptÉ oh, God. That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”
“Why?” Davey asked, frowning a little.
“Because I knew it would freak you out.” Pete cursed softly under his breath, and Davey impulsively reached across the table and touched Pete’s wrist, drawing his hand back immediately as if he’d been burned.
“I’m not freaked out. I’mÉ curious. That’s all. WhatÉ what was I doing there in the first place?”
There was no denying Pete’s flush that time, and he shook his head in resignation before he answered a long moment later. “I guessÉ the impression I got was that you slept there. With, umÉ with me.”
Davey swallowed a mouthful of whiskey and coughed once, dryly. “Yeah?”
Pete nodded miserably, refusing to look at him. He reached for his pack of cigarettes again, but glanced up sharply when he found Davey’s hands already there, his eyes meeting Davey’s in the split second their fingers touched before they both drew back, the awkwardness between them intensifying.
“Can I ask a kind of personal question?” Davey said finally, draining his second drink and swirling the last few drops around in the bottom of the glass.
Pete grunted a little, nodding, and Davey nodded in return.
“Was it the first time — not, like, in that dream, butÉ have youÉ uhÉ”
Grinning, Pete finished the thought for him. “Have I had the dream before?”
His face burning, Davey merely nodded.
Pete shrugged, smiling shyly. “WellÉ actuallyÉ yeah. And sometimes you leave, butÉ a lot of times, you stay.”
“And then what happens?” Davey’s eyes widened when he realized he’d spoken aloud.
Pete moved his foot under the table, his toes accidentally brushing Davey’s, but neither of them moved. “Sometimes I wake up,” he said softly, finally meeting and holding Davey’s gaze, “but sometimes the dream just keeps going, andÉ wellÉ”
Davey felt a smile beginning to twitch at the corners of his lips, and he reached across the table again, this time brushing aside the crumpled cigarette pack and reaching for Pete’s hand. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he said quietly, moving his foot closer still to Pete’s. “But I think I’d like to hear it if you do.”
Pete’s eyes widened, and he reached for his glass, draining it abruptly and setting it down on the table with a loud thump. “R-right now? Here?”
Biting his lip thoughtfully, Davey shook his head, sliding out of the bench seat and extending a hand to Pete, who stared at it in disbelief for just a second before accepting it and allowing Davey to help him to his feet. “No, I’m getting tired again. I was thinking I’d go lie down for a while.”
Their fingers remained laced between them as they stood there in the tiny kitchenette of the tour bus, staring at each other in the dim lighting, but before Pete even had a chance to respond, Davey could see the answer in his eyes already, and merely flashed him a shy smile, turning back toward the bunk area and quietly sliding open the door.
“Would you do me a favor?” Pete’s whisper barely carried across the scant space between them, but Davey turned back, his brow creasing slightly.
“Yeah?”
Pete's smile was wary but tinged with hope as he tightened his grip on Davey’s fingers. “Just tell me I’m not dreaming again.”
