I.


"Chino? Chino, wake up. Wake up, man. Chino... Camillo. Wake up, Camillo. It's just a dream. Sh, sh, silencio...silencio, mi bonito..."

He woke up shaking in Stef's arms, eyes wide in terror. Heart pounding like a caged animal, trying to rip its way through his chest. He ran fingertips over the familiar curve of Stef's shoulder, reconnecting to the read world, reaffirming; then he shoved the other man away, hard enough to knock him gently into the wall.

"Ah!" Stef cried out softly in the darkness when his head hit the wall, but otherwise did not protest. He had expected such a reaction--had been surprised, really, that Chino had allowed his touch at all. He picked himself up and faced the bed, hands held carefully in front of him where the singer could see them.

"You okay?"

"Yes." Toneless. Dismissive. Go away, that voice clearly said. Leave me alone. Stef let his hands fall to his sides with a defeated sigh.

"Okay. If you need me--"

"I'm fine." Go.

He left.

***

"You don't know me. Shut up, you don't know me."

Swaying to the rhythm of his own words, Chino looked down at the crowd stretched more than 20 feet below him. They were calling him, beckoning with lifted hands, waiting for his fall. Waiting to catch him.

No thought, no feeling, nothing but Chi's bass line rippling his spine and the words that were a liquid growl trapped in his throat. Don't think about the distance--bones snapping, wet smack of skull on pavement, those curled fingers clawing for trophies from his hair--just fall.

They were screaming for him now, hands open and begging, chanting his name. He answered with a stomach-churning leap, growling the next line even as he fell, head-first, twisting in mid-air with a tight flip that put him on his back as he reached the crowd. Stef watched in amazement, nearly missing a chord as he realized that although he could barely see him--was that a foot? The glint of a cross?--he could still hear Chino's voice flowing steadily through the speakers. Curious, he walked forward, peering over the edge of the stage. Chino grinned ferally up at him, looking tousled and slightly undressed, but no worse for the wear. He'd never understood the singer less than in that moment.

You threw a fit the last time Chi tried to hug you, he thought, remembering the drunken argument that had followed. And yet, all these people...strangers...there have to be hundreds of hands on you.

Why?

II.


There is a peculiar phenomenon that occurs every so often as I lay sleepless in bed, fighting insomnia. It happens infrequently, following no discernible pattern, and yet, somehow, I can always anticipate it. It's going to happen tonight.

I'm staring up at the bland white ceiling that stretches flatly above me. Like my heart, I think, and smile. There are reasons I don't write our songs.

The door whispers open, and I glance curiously at the clock. 4:06 am. That's five minutes later than last time, I think, absently filing it into my memory. The first night it was just past twelve. I wonder if he'll stop coming soon. I wonder if I want him to.

"Ste?" he whispers, and I realize he thinks I'm still asleep. I sigh and pull the sheets back, smoothing them down again as he crawls into bed beside me. The darkness is heavy and warm around us, not truly black, soft like rubbed velvet. His arms come hesitantly around me, touch whisper-soft, questioning. It hurts, how shy he is, how frightened, even with me. I draw him carefully against me, slowly, giving him time to pull away; he stiffens slightly as if considering it, then molds his body against mine. No one outside this room could imagine how gentle I am with him. Impatience simply isn't an option.

"Did I wake you?" He murmurs warmly against my shoulder, goatee tickling my skin.

"You know you didn't."

He nods; stubbled cheek scratching across my chest. "I had a bad dream," he explains, and I can't help but smile. If anyone saw him right now, curled up like a child in my arms, hiding from nightmares...

"It's okay now," I reassure him, holding him a little closer. He tilts his face towards me and I press a gentle kiss to his mouth before settling into sleep. It isn't about lust, or passion, or even love--although I do love him--it's about comfort. I see the way women look at him, and I understand when their eyes crawl across his body, but to me he's too much of a little boy to ever be a man. He doesn't need a wife, he needs a mother, and I suppose I fit the role as well as anyone.

His head rolls down to rest more comfortably against my chest, and I can feel the rhythm of his breathing slowing down and evening out as he drifts asleep. Safe. He feels safe in my arms. I wish I could keep him there forever, safe.

III.


"What the fuck is your problem, Moreno?"

"MY problem! You're the one who keeps fucking up the fucking chords!"

Abe set his sticks off to one side, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from his brow. He shot a covert glance at the pair over his kit: Stef straight-backed and towering, hands clenched at his sides; Chino glaring up at him from his slighter stature, getting in his face. Squared off like gunfighters, eyes narrowed, rage coming off of them in waves like radiation poisoning. Abe had a feeling practice was over for the day.

"Don't tell me how to do my fucking job, Chino," Stef growled, making the other man's name an insult.

"Then do your fucking job so I don't have to!" Chino shot back with equal venom.

"Come on, guys, let's just start the song over." Chi's soft, reasonable voice only seemed to enrage both men even further.

"Shut the fuck up, Chi. You know, Moreno, if you don't like my fuckin' playing, maybe you should find a new guitarist."

Abe rolled his eyes at Stef's dramatic pronouncement. It was the third time he'd threatened to leave this week.

"Jesus Christ, this is fucking ridiculous," he muttered under his breath, so only Frank could hear. The DJ smiled sympathetically at him as Stef and Chino continued to argue, oblivious.

"Maybe I fuckin' should. You throw that shit around like a threat, Ste, but you're fuckin' replaceable. You ain't nothin' special." Chino spat the words at the guitarist and turned to leave, but Stef's hand on his upper arm stopped him.

"We're not fini--" Stef began, but his words were drowned out by Chino's strangled cry.

"Don't you fucking TOUCH me," he screamed, fist swinging out to connect with Stef's jaw. The rest of the band watched in uncomfortable silence as the argument dissolved into yet another fistfight. After Chino's initial blow Stef regained the upper hand, until the furious singer leveled him with a well-swung chair. Stef hit the ground looking surprised, and the band took advantage of the momentary hiatus to step between the two, breaking them apart.

"Right. That's enough." Chi's voice was calm and hard as steel. "Abe, Frank, take him to a doctor or something, he probably cracked a rib." The bassist watched as his bandmates maneuvered the unwilling Stef down the hall. Once they were out of sight he turned to Chino, studying the other man with thoughtfully narrowed eyes.

"Want to tell me what that was about?"

Chino curled his lip in disgust, gesturing dismissively to the door and the departed guitarist. "Come on, Chi, he was being a dick, you saw that. He was fucking up the song."

"That wasn't what I was referring to."

The singer shot him a menacing glare, dark, expressive brows drawn sharply together. "Fuck off," he replied easily, standing and brushing past Chi as he headed for the door.

"Chino--" Chi called after him, reaching out to lightly brush the man's shoulder. In an instant he was pinned against the wall, hand wrapped around his throat, so close he could feel Chino's breath against his lips as he hissed into his face.

"Don't. Ever. Fucking. Touch me," he snarled, slowly and deliberately. Chi's eyes were wide with shock and he let himself slide to the floor as Chino released him, striding unhurriedly out the door.

IV.


Fuckers. Motherfucking bitches. Why can't they ever leave me the fuck alone?

I leave the studio in a blind rage. Although I know I look cool and unruffled as usual, I'm practically shaking inside. I can still feel where Chi's fingertips touched my shoulder, even through the fabric of my shirt. My skin crawls with the very idea--I need to get clean.

Stef is suddenly in front of me, looming and massive and motherfuck, was he always that big? Okay, get a grip, Moreno, you're twenty-fucking-eight years old. "Get the fuck out of my way." A growl. His eyes narrow, but he doesn't move aside. Don't make me fight him again. Don't make me touch him.

"We need to talk." He takes a step towards me, and before I can stop myself I take a step back. He grins a little in triumph and I want to hit him so hard his jaw shatters.

"No, we don't. I need to go to my room and you need to get out of my fucking way."

"Jesus Christ, ease up a little, huh? I don't want to fight, I just want to talk to you. Stop being such a prick."

"I don't have time for this." I lower my head and try to push past him, sliding along the far wall, but he reaches out and captures my wrist in one hand. His fingers are like iron, squeezing hard enough to make bones grind, bruising skin. I don't even think he knows he's hurting me.

Blind panic.

I lash out with my right, but he's ready for it, and catches my fist neatly in his left. I lean back to kick him in the balls but he reads the movement in my shift in posture and pulls me off-balance, dragging me into his room, which is close to the small studio we practice in. He kicks the door shut and shoves me face-first onto the bed. I manage to flip over and kick him once in the stomach before pins me down, straddling my knees, hands firm around my wrists as he traps them against the bed. He's too big, too strong, and he's determined, but I struggle anyway, because I can't not.

"Knock it off, I'm not gonna hit you. I just want to talk and I don't want you running away."

I can't hear him. I kick and buck and thrash, eyes wide, teeth snapping, desperate, horrified. He's touching me all over, I can feel him in my skin. Get off, get off, get the fuck off of me--

"Chino!" He sounds annoyed and a little worried. Big brown eyes peering down at me curiously, trying to peel back the layers and see inside me. "It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. Okay? I'm not going to hurt you, I promise." Shh, Chinito, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. Be quiet, Chino. Shh. You don't want your mama and papa to hear, do you? I promise I won't hurt you...

"Get--off--me--!" I pant the words desperately, twisting beneath Stef with diminishing strength. Close my eyes as I breathe deeply, trying to calm my panic. Stef is very still above me, afraid to give me any chance to escape.

"Chino--" He cuts himself off with a sigh. "Please, just tell me what's going on."

Open my eyes to see him gazing down at me almost softly, look of friendly concern in his eyes. It's Stef. Familiar lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, familiar frown. It's just Stef. But the panic remains.

"Let me go." It was supposed to be a scream, but it comes out as a whisper. Pathetic. Begging. "Please, let go of me." I start to shake, but I'm not crying. I'm twenty-fucking-eight years old and I am not going to cry like a fucking child. "Let GO OF ME!"

I think that caught him by surprise, because his grip on my wrists loosens a little. It's enough to pull my hands free and wrap them around his throat, shoving him off of me. My skin feels raw like a burn wound where he touched me. Maybe I can burn it away.

V.


Night.
Darkness.
Midnight hour.
He was sleeping, if you could call it that; too fitful to be truly resting. Moved from his back to his side to his stomach, to his side again; curled up with his knees to his chest, one dark arm flung over his face as if to ward off a blow. He wasn't crying exactly; it was more of a choking sound, like being drowned. Soft and clicking in the back of his throat, just this side of a gasp. It was those little half-sobs that told Stef he was having the dream again.

Whatever it was he saw behind closed eyes made him fold in on himself like a small child. The bony ridges of his spine showed clearly in the vulnerable curve of his back as he bent double, legs tucked securely into the circle of his arms. He flexed, shoulder tightening, curling smaller still until his chin dug painfully into the hard plates of his knees. He'd start to scream soon. Stef pulled himself resignedly from bed and trudged across the ugly hotel carpet to stand staring, clueless as to what to do. Should he try to wake him with words, or shake him from his dreams? The last time he'd done that he'd woken up on his back, head tender where it met the telephone.

"Chino. C'mon man, wake up. Chino, hey, wake up. It's just a dream. It's okay. Hey, Chino, hey."

Frustrated by the lack of response, Stef reached out tentatively to touch the singer's shoulder. The reaction was immediate. "No!" he whimpered, flinching away from the contact. He mumbled something incoherent; Stef tried to pick distinct words from the jumble.

"No...please...parada...no me toque..."

"Chino," Stef murmured gently, taking the singer's face firmly in both hands. The vocalist's struggles died instantly; after a long moment he opened coffee-colored eyes. "Ste?"

"You were having that dream again," Stef explained quietly, running a soft hand through Chino's spiky black hair. The gesture seemed to calm the other man down somewhat, so he repeated it, petting his head tenderly. "Why won't you tell me what it's about?"

Chino's eyes lifted to meet Stef's gaze, and the guitarist flinched a little at the stricken look on the thin face. "He...he wouldn't let go of me," he whispered, so softly it might have made no sound at all, so softly they might both have imagined it. "He was so much bigger than me, Ste, and he wouldn't let me go, and I was so scared..."

"Who, Chino? Who?"

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