You're not sure when it started, but it feels like it's been years in the making. Maybe even since the first day you laid eyes on him.

It began as simple curiosity. He was so different. Pale complexion nearly alabaster when framed by the shocking darkness of his black dreadlocks. You'd always hated dreads on white boys but they fit something feral in him. Eyes so blue they hurt to look at, eyes that creeped other people out with their guarded, machinating intelligence. Eyes that saw past all your bullshit, even the few things that still fooled Mark, and yet... he liked you anyway. Not that he had ever said so, but you could tell by the way he spent more time with you than anyone else, the studious glances he threw your way when he thought you weren't looking. He was so quiet, in a way you'd never encountered before; not shy, just content with silence. Serene, yet wild. It made you wonder what he saw when he looked at you.

Curiosity quickly grew to fascination. Everything he did intrigued you, everything about him left you wanting to know more. At first you thought maybe it was some fucked-up form of hero worship. Until you realized one day that you didn't want to be him...

You just wanted him.

That's when the dreams began. Fantasies so unabashedly erotic it made even you blush to think of them. Fantasies of him that inevitably ended with you panting and trembling in sweat-soaked sheets. You ignored them as much as you could; every trip home to SoCal and Jen was filled with endless hours of lovemaking, as if you could replace his image with your wife's. But the dreams didn't end, and neither did your desire.

You didn't want him, you needed him.

Which is how you find yourself outside the door of his hotel room, waiting for him to let you in, your heart pounding with an anxiety normally experienced by schoolgirls at one of your concerts. You can't remember being this nervous since the night you proposed to Jen. You don't know what you're going to say to him when you see him, you just know you have to say something. Because somewhere along the way, some idle moment when you weren't paying attention, this fascination became...

...love.

"Tom?"

There's nothing special about his voice, except when it purrs your name. Something about the way his tongue rolls to form the T makes you almost light-headed with pleasure, and your eyes can't seem to leave his mouth. It's moving again, shaping words for you, but you don't hear any of them.

"Tom." Quiet, but commanding; he's not one to raise his voice, even in an argument. Your eyes snap to his and the intensity of his gaze makes you suddenly nauseous. Your palms are sweating and you try to wipe them discreetly on your thighs, but you have the awful feeling that he knows exactly how nervous you are. In all your months of feverish obsession you've never planned this moment, and the gravity of what you're about to do hits you all at once, like an anvil in a cartoon, crushing the words trapped in your chest.

You've never been so scared in your entire life.

And then, a voice of reason amid the panic: This is Travis. Bandmate, brother, best friend; fiercely loyal in his own quiet way, the intensity of his love communicated in a simple touch. You've never really talked about it, but you know he'd follow you to the moon and back without a spacesuit if you asked him to. This is Travis. Whatever happens, whatever comes of this, he will understand.

You take a breath to calm the wild fluttering of your heart, and when you open your eyes he's beside you, sitting cross-legged with pale tattooed arms resting on his knees, waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to make the first move.

"Trav..." You stop, shaking your head. Pause a moment, then slice your hand through the air between you, wiping the slate clean. He simply nods and waits for you to start again, and you think, not for the first time, thank you.

"Something's happened to me in the last few months. I'm not sure what it is, but I think..." You close your eyes and take another steadying breath. Three, two, one...

"I think I'm in love with you."

Boom.

The silence is heavy enough to be labeled 'uncomfortable', and for all your prior optimism you can't help squirming under his unwavering gaze. Say something, your mind screams at him, say anything, just SAY SOMETHING.

"Oh," he says. The pressure eases a little and you draw a tentative breath. And then--"I'm sorry, Tom."

He's sorry? He's standing--he's standing, staring down at you, and those eyes aren't empty anymore. "I'm sorry, but I don't feel that way, and I don't...I don't think we can be friends anymore."

In the millions of scenarios you've imagined since the morning you woke up with his name on your lips, his reaction has spanned the full range of human emotion. He's beaten the shit out of you; he's leapt into your arms; he's even broken down in tears. But you've never prepared for this. Voice still quiet, almost a hint of pity in his gaze; but only almost.

Silent resignation, and the barely concealed shadow of disgust.

"Travis--" you plead, and a detached part of your mind is shocked by the ragged whisper of your own voice. You sound beaten down, defeated, and you suspect it shows in the haunted hollows of your eyes. Because you have no pride left you reach out and curl your fingers around his ankle, clinging like a lost child, pleading silently with him to stay.

You'd understand it if he lashed out, attacked you in a fury of righteous anger; but he doesn't. He simply stares down at you, and then he gently shakes free of your grip and turns away. Your chest is heaving and your face is wet with tears, but it takes you a moment to connect those awful sounds with yourself. It sounds like a cat being skinned alive.

"Travis," you shriek, throat raw with grief. Your hands scrabble numbly for purchase on the smooth oak floors, but you're too slow, and little by little he's fading from your view. "Please don't, don't leave, don't leave." The twist of a corner steals him from your sight. "This isn't supposed to be the way it ends..."

But it is.