Madrid, June 2000

He was smiling at me from the other side of the room. He didn't smile often. The look changed his face -- brightened it and took away the brooding Hungarian dark. His mother's side. Casually, he tucked his hair behind one ear. The dark curling strands that touched his collar. I knew how they felt between my fingers. Just looking at him now, remembering . . . just being in the same room with him sometimes undid me. He was so beautiful, masculine and yet also feminine. With the best of both -- strength and sensitivity, boldness and beauty. Ville Hermanii Valo. Dark lord of the European stage, the melodic voice of wicked love . . . and sensual death.

But it was more than his looks, or the idol he'd become that made me fall for him. It was him, the person I'd come to know over the two years we'd been together -- spent most of our time together. The countless shows we'd performed, the hotels we'd shared, the bus rides. The boy was more than just a German magazine cover. As dark and deadly as his lyrics, his songs were -- that was as full of life as he could be. He was funny, tender, honest . . . sometimes to a fault. Even his name -- Valo -- meant light in our native tongue of Finnish. And for me he was a light in the darkness.

And I'd come to love him.

Blow jobs, hand jobs, stolen kisses . . . and some not so stolen. Some very public. He liked to test the boundaries, believing, as it was easy to, that people really wouldn't notice. Really wouldn't suspect that he and his keyboardist, another boy, were fucking around. If not actually fucking. No, not actually fucking. Not yet.

Ville lit a cigarette and made his way through the backstage crowd, all eyes on him. Coming toward me, still with that smile. Brazen in the way he moved, his leather-clad hips swaying slightly, his black shirt riding up, revealing his flat stomach and that tattoo. The heartagram --love and death -- embracing just below his navel.

When he reached me, I had to look up to meet his eyes. And I remembered what he'd told a reporter not long ago about why he wore makeup. "To bring out the green in my eyes." I'd been holding the microphone for him and had barely suppressed a laugh. He'd had an answer for everything in those days. Almost everything. But damn, he had beautiful eyes.

He leaned down, close to my ear, to be heard above the backstage din. He put his hand on my hip, over the thin material of the long skirt I had worn on stage that night. He liked the way I sometimes dressed; the way I played with my own feminine side. "You want to find the restroom?" His voice was deep, vibrating. Intoxicating.

"There's one down the hall to the left," I replied, my own hand skimming over his. My cock twitching at just that small contact.

He kissed my cheek. "I'll meet you there. Wait for me."

Wait for him? At that very moment, it wouldn't have taken much to get me off. However long I'd have to wait, I knew it would be too long. "I'll be there."

I slipped past him, walking by the backstage crowd with hardly anyone glancing in my direction. Like Gas, our drummer, I was someone almost behind the scenes. Not easily recognizable. If I hadn't been wearing the skirt, I was sure almost no one would notice me. Ville and I couldn't have been more different. He was a front man, an attention getter; I was happy not to be in the spotlight. Ville even went by his own name, while I'd adopted the stage name that no one in the band called me -- Zoltan Pluto.

I made it out the door and down the hall easily. And like he'd asked, I waited for him in the empty restroom.

I studied my face in the long mirror above the sinks. Small-featured, thin-faced, with a goatee. Dark hair, dark eyes. Not unattractive, but just not remarkable, memorable. Or at least I didn't think so. I wondered what Ville saw when he looked at me. Wondered too, if he could see in my eyes how much I cared about him, how much more I wanted from him.

The door squeaked behind me, and I turned to see him there. He paused for a moment, looking at me, the smile returning to his face. "I've missed being with you," he said.

I leaned back against one of the sinks. "Me too." We'd been together, but not alone like this, not for more than a week. It'd been much too long.

Ville let the door close behind him. He dropped what was left of his cigarette, snuffed it out with his boot, then he walked up to me. His long legs straddled my own beneath the skirt, his slender body pressed against mine. His arms went around me, holding me against his chest. There was no way to describe what it was like just to be held by him. I could hear his heart pounding, knowing my own beat just as fast.

His lips found my cheek, trailed up toward my ear. Warm breath excited me. I felt myself growing hard against him. The thin material of my skirt did nothing to hide my arousal -- I knew he felt it too. Leaning back just far enough to meet my gaze, he took my face in his hands and kissed me, eagerly. I tasted nicotine and wine, bitter and sweet. A taste that was Ville. One I hungered for all the time, like an addiction.

He broke off the kiss and said breathlessly, "We should . . . the stall."

I nodded and together, tangled in one another's arms, we made our way over. The door banged open in our haste, then slammed shut behind my body as he pressed me up against it and flipped the lock. His hands were working fast at my clothes, pulling the sweater up over my head and tugging the long skirt down over my hips. Only my boots were left, everything else was discarded on the floor. Ville himself hadn't shed any of his clothes, not yet. He liked to do me first. To be the one in charge.

He looked amazing, as he paused to look me over. His own hair, messed. His lips, full and glistening. Ville was a sight beyond heavenly, even fully clothed in black. And then, he descended on me, like a hawk. Some bird of prey. His hands clutched at my shoulders, and easily shifted me over to the side of the stall, his lips found my own again, devouring. His whole body pressed against mine, knee between my legs, teasing my balls and growing erection. My fists grabbed at the back of his shirt, as I ground against him.

He was kissing me all over now. My neck, my chest, his tongue wetting my nipples, making them peak. His mouth trailed lower, over my abdomen and down. Until he took my cock into his mouth. Until he knelt before me, hands firm on my hips and sucked and licked. I gasped, steadying myself with my hands on his shoulders. Moaning as he continued to pleasure me, I lost myself in the sensations. My hand trailed up to his hair, feeling its silkiness as he took me closer and closer to the brink.

With just his name, I warned him. But as he had only once before, he swallowed. Taking in all that I pumped out. Licking me clean. And after, looking up at me with the most amazing bright eyes. He was new to this, he'd told me not long ago when we'd first messed around. He learned fast though, and seemed to be enjoying it more each time. But not as much as I was.

I smiled down at him, my chest still heaving, my heart not even beginning to slow. And I ran my hand across his cheek, feeling the smoothness of his skin, and the heat beneath my touch. It'd be my turn now.

A squeaking noise caught both of our attention. The door of the restroom was opening. Someone walking in. "Ville?" It was Mige's voice. "You here?"

"Yeah," Ville called. He touched a hand to my lips, gently maneuvering me around so that my booted feet would be least visible from the doorway.

"You all right?" Mige asked. He was always acting like a big brother, not that Ville didn't need one.

"Fine." Ville sighed and rolled his eyes.

"Seppo wants you, something about a reporter?"

"Another fucking interview!" Ville said, without having to fake his disgust. "I'll be there in a minute."

"Don't keep him waiting," Mige warned.

"I won't."

The door shut, leaving us alone. The mood obviously ruined. Ville sighed again and shook his head. "I'm sorry, I have to go," he said, taking my face in his hands, and kissing me lightly on the lips.

He wasn't as sorry as I was though, and I couldn't mask my disappointment. Ville frowned, his pouting lips mocking my own expression. "Come by my room tonight? About one?"

I smiled. His room would be much better than a restroom stall. "Sure," I said. I would never have denied him, and I was sure he knew that.

He picked up my clothes and handed them to me, giving me another quick kiss. But his next words hurt for no real reason. "Wait a few minutes before you come backstage."

Ville opened the stall door, and walked out. I watched as he checked his reflection in the long mirror, running his fingers through his hair, combing away the mess I'd made of it. He dug another cigarette out of his pocket and lit it. And through the smoke I saw myself reflected behind him, a naked shadow in the corner of the stall.

****

One o'clock.

I left my room, one that I shared with Linde. He'd gone out with Mige. Madrid beware, I thought with a smile. I'd begged out of their nightly jaunt since I had better things to do. Valo was waiting for me. The thought alone sent a shiver through me. He was waiting. It'd be a night to remember, I was sure of it.

Few were the times we'd had the chance to be alone in a hotel room. I could probably count them all on one hand. We all usually shared rooms, Mige always bunking with Ville. But this time Ville had asked Seppo to book a single room for him. He'd said he needed some space to work on his songs.

And on me.

None of them knew about us, not really. Though I'm sure maybe Linde suspected. His eyebrows had risen when he saw us kiss once for the cameras, but he never said anything. Linde himself was gay, openly. He understood what it was like to hide, even if he hadn't been hiding in a while. Either that, or he was sure Ville would deny it. I frowned at the thought of Ville denying all we'd done, but considering the way we snuck around, I didn't have any hope that he'd come out soon.

I made my way down the hall as I struggled with my thoughts about him. With how much I cared about him, but also how I'd grown to hate hiding. To him it seemed exciting, for me it was frustrating.

I knocked on his door. No response. Had he forgotten and gone out too? I knocked again. Still nothing. This time, I tried the knob, surprised when it opened easily.

I swung the door inward to find Ville frantically clawing through his bags. He was wheezing, a still smoking cigarette dropped and forgotten in the ashtray. An asthma attack. I'd only seen him have one once before, but I recognized it immediately. Fearfully.

He looked up at me, eyes large in his distress. "I can't . . . find . . ."

His inhaler. I rushed to help him look, throwing open empty drawers, hunting through the bathroom, and turning up nothing. Ville's hands were trembling now, as he continued searching through the contents of the bags he'd dumped on the bed. Still nothing.

Defeated, Ville turned and lowered himself to the bed. He sat there, eyes diverted, his breathing even more labored, rocking slowly back and forth as though he was somehow willing his attack to stop. When he looked up at me, I could barely hear the name he spoke, "Seppo."

I guessed that our manager must have a spare inhaler just for this reason. Either that or Seppo would know what to do. Sometimes I thought he was the only adult among us. Without even replying to Ville, I ran out the door and down the hall. And up the stairs, my speed hindered by the damn skirt I still wore. At least Seppo's room was only one floor above. I banged on the door, screaming for him in a voice that was barely like my own.

He opened it, standing in the doorway bleary-eyed. My words came in a rush of Finnish; I couldn't even spare the time to translate my thoughts to English. Understanding dawned with a look of stark fear on our manager's face. Seppo cursed in our native tongue and left me at the door while he yanked open his own bag. There it was, an inhaler. To me it looked like pure gold.

The two of us rushed back to Ville's room. We found him in the bathroom. He'd turned on the shower, steam beginning to rise from behind the curtain. Ville was curled beside the tub, half-undressed, his shirt discarded beside him. He'd probably tried to ease his breathing with the steam, and it hadn't worked, at least not yet. He looked up at Seppo, no breath left for words. Thankfully, our manager knew just what to do. He knelt beside Ville and held the inhaler up to his lips, depressing the container. It wasn't long before Ville began to breathe easier, the color, what little he had, returning to his face.

"You missed your pill today." It wasn't a question.

Ville nodded, dropping his eyes from Seppo's.

"And you're smoking like a fucking chimney." Seppo hardly ever used harsh language, not in English anyway. It made his words all the more an accusation. One to which Ville made no reply. Instead he just sat there, shoulders rising and falling with the deep, easy breaths that he'd begun to take.

Seppo sighed. He touched the side of Ville's face and leaned close to kiss his forehead. "You're going to give this old man a heart attack." The affection, though tinged with aggravation, Seppo had for him was obvious. I knew he cared about us all, but Ville was special to him. Seppo handed the inhaler to Ville. "Don't lose this one before I can get another." He straightened and turned to me, patting me on the shoulder. "Make sure he gets some rest." Our patriarch walked out of the bathroom, and I heard the outside door close behind him.

I sighed. Rest hadn't been what I'd had in mind when I'd come to Ville's room, but now . . . Ville could have died. The thought was chilling. Terrifying. Confirming the strength of my feelings for him, that at least for me this was more than just a casual attraction. It scared me even more, to realize how much he actually meant to me. It made me weak-kneed, almost dizzy. Control, control . . . I couldn't break down now.

When I finally could move, I carefully stepped around Ville and turned off the shower. Calling his name, I reached my hand down to help him up. He glanced up at me, took my hand, but didn't say anything, not even as he got to his feet and walked out of the bathroom. I didn't know if he was embarrassed or just tired. Afraid to say anything that might be misunderstood, I too remained silent as I followed him back into the room.

He sat on the bed, one hand raking through his hair. "Not the night you expected," he finally said.

"Are you okay?"

He nodded. "Tired." That was probably an understatement.

"You should get some sleep then. I'll just . . ."

"No, don't go." He motioned me toward him.

I found myself standing between his leather-clad legs. His hands came to rest on my hips. Even as dire as our situation had just been, I found myself growing hard just being so close to him.

"Sleep here tonight, maybe in the morning . . ." He let his words trail into silence.

Again, I was sure he knew I couldn't refuse him. To stay here with him, sleep in his bed -- I hadn't even hoped for as much when he suggested that I come to his room. I leaned forward, took his pretty face in my hands and kissed him. The kiss I gave him was tender, thankful.

When we parted, he smiled. "That's a yes, I believe?"

I just returned his smile.

We undressed and climbed under the covers together. I shut off the bedside lamp, giving us over to the darkness. His warm arm thrown around me, my back against his chest. Nothing between us but our skin. For me, it was heaven and hell, the bliss of being with him, the torture of having to wait. And purgatory too -- What was he doing to my heart? And how could I let him?

Ville fell asleep quickly, exhausted and unaware of my inner struggles. His warm breath was steady against my neck. God, that he could even breathe was a miracle, as much as he abused himself. I smoked too, but not as much, and I didn't have asthma. And the life he led . . . I'd only been a part of it for a short while, but he . . . he'd lived like this for years. One venue to another, a rehearsal to record-store appearance, another interview. Cities passed by in a blur, life passing by in the flash of cameras. How did he do it? And how could I be a part of what he did? But I was now, a bigger part than I'd bargained for in the beginning.

Then I'd just been a keyboard player, someone who interpreted the notes he wrote. Like the now classic "Join Me In Death" melody. I never thought that the two of us would wind up like this, even if I'd been attracted to him from the start. I really never believed he'd feel the same about me.

Ville shifted slightly behind me, his hand splaying out across my chest over my heart, his sigh stirring the hair at the back of my neck. Warming me. Even in sleep, he managed to make me wild for him.

My mind whirled with thoughts of him for what seemed like hours until I finally drifted off. I was sure I dreamed of him too, how could I not?