by K. L. Noone
Justin declined—this was about Kris, he said—but stayed put in the background, leaning against the hallway’s wall and visible from inside the booth. He started talking to one or two people, fellow DJs and radio station employees who came over to say hi and investigate, interested as cats.
Kris, being trapped in an interview and introduced to listeners, couldn’t hear any of those conversations. Justin was smiling, though, animatedly talking right back, hands and hair in motion.
Kris smiled too. Checked his phone. Steve had sent over what he’d asked, plus a thumbs up and a winking face. He opted not to reply.
“…and joining us today is Kris Starr, former lead singer of Starrlight, these days enjoying his own solo career, and we’re going to talk about the new album, the rumors about his former manager, and why he’s looking so happy these days,” Marianne finished, eying his distraction meaningfully.
Kris attempted an apologetic face. Leaned in to say hello. Thank you for having me. Genial small talk. Warming up. While the future hung over his shoulder and waited to see what he’d do.
Marianne said, “So you must know something about the New York Demon, then—for any listeners who don’t, that’s Justin Moore, formerly of Aubrey Records, and the person who’s kept Kris Starr releasing new music for all of us to hear. Kris, did you have any idea?”
She wasn’t starting easily, then. Well, they’d known; and he threw a glance at Justin, who was listening from the hallway, using his phone to follow along, not quite facing them. “I found out a few days before everyone else did. I didn’t know until then.”
“That’s right, he was out with you when the baby-rescuing happened. And it didn’t bother you?”
“No.” Too emphatic, but what the hell. “He’s the same person. He’s the person who—without him I wouldn’t be here. I wouldn’t be writing. I’m also giving him writing credit on the holiday album.” So there. His demon couldn’t refuse now.
Justin, beyond soundbooth windows, rolled his eyes. But his hair did its pleased spiraling flame-dance.
Marianne took Kris’s clear annoyance about the line of questioning in stride. “Speaking of, you said you’d brought in a demo tape?”
“I did, yeah. It’s just fun really. And let’s face it, my career has always been about me having fun.” Not true—not entirely, not lately, not for the last few years. Not until Justin Moore had bounced into his life with violet hair and secrets and that grin. But it got the laugh. “Here, start with this one…”
The one he’d been asked to bring in was the holiday edit of “Little Black Dress,” which he had, and that went over well; Marianne laughed at some of the lyrics, commented on the emotion, asked about the release date—right before Midwinter’s Eve, in time for the album to be a present and the first song to be a proper single—and chatted with him about songwriting for a minute or two. “You said you were writing again. Was there a time when you weren’t? Does it get more difficult, after so many years?”
“The honest answer is yes. For quite a few years.” And that was the opening he’d wanted. “I was…it wasn’t a great time. I didn’t have much to say. Or I didn’t think I did, anymore. But when I said I was writing again because of him—Justin—I meant it.”
Justin’s head came up. Watching him.
“And what does that mean?”
“I mean he makes me want to write love songs.” All in now. On air. No going back. “And I don’t think that’s something that gets more difficult over time. Or it only does when you forget how love makes you feel, how important it is. But it’s easy again. I look at him and I feel like I can be the…the person he sees. And I love him.” Coming out muddled, in the wrong order, but nevertheless. “I actually brought you something else. It’s just a rough version, it’s a cover, actually, not something I’d normally—and I did it before we even—but I wanted to share. Can I?”
“Are you saying,” Marianne May said, “right here and now, to all our listeners, that Kris Starr is…what, in love with the New York Demon?”
“I am,” Kris said. To her, to Justin, to everyone. “I love him.”
He’d brought that Pictsies cover. His feelings on display, in Steve’s studio. Vocals only. Himself and “Here Comes My Man,” and hope and desperate wistful gazing and dreams fulfilled, a love come home at last.
His voice echoed through the space, across airwaves, unpolished and quickly recorded and raw.
Marianne got teary. Nothing but passionate quiet in the booth as the song finished.
Kris dared to peek around. Justin was gone.
Gone?
What did that mean? Why? When? Had he even heard it? Had he—
“Kris Starr,” Marianne scolded, laughing through a tissue, “how dare you make me cry, this is my show. No wonder you spent so many years breaking hearts. You’re a romantic.”
“I am,” Kris said again, looking around for Justin. “I am again, I think. For him. I’m sorry, I think we might need to cut this short, I might have to go—”
“Oh, go on!” She waved him off. “Go. Be romantic. Get your man. And to all of you here listening, we hope you too find your man, woman, both, neither, or whatever decorates your personal Yule Log. And here’s ‘Sugar In Your Tea,’ that Starrlight classic…”
Kris ran. Justin really had gone. The morning show crew told him so. One of them, a broad-shouldered fortress on legs, glowered at him. “The kid looked kinda upset. You sure he wants you to find him?”
“Please,” Kris said, out of breath and increasingly frantic. Upset? Enough to leave? “I need to talk to him.”
“Kid’s been through enough,” rumbled the fortress. “His ex and all.”
“Look, I know, okay, I was there, I love him, did he say where—”
The crew, as one, crossed massive arms. Kris gave up.
He tried calling Justin. No answer.
He stared out at fog like brittle icebergs, treacherous and sharp and concealing peril under beauty. He called a cab.
Justin wasn’t in the apartment when he bolted through the door. No burning hair or kicked-off boots or sudden smile. The countertops and guitars and sofa-cushions glared at him. They weren’t wrong, it must’ve been his fault, but what—
“What did I do?” he whispered, broken, stunned. “Justin?”
Nothing. Emptiness. No music. Snapped strings and crumpled hope, left behind like the detritus after a show, bruised and hollow.
He drifted down to sit on his sofa. He looked at his hands. They were useless.
He looked at the fingerprints resting crimson over his arm. He could touch them. He could try to get Justin to come back. But Justin had left. Had vanished away from him.
He lifted his other hand anyway, but set it down without touching.
His apartment felt cold. The sun was attempting to venture out. It kept losing to clouds. Smothered in grey.
He lost track of time. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been sitting in the same place.
He knew, intellectually, that he’d likely survive this, at least physically; he knew he’d have to get up and eat something, eventually; he knew he had enough scotch and vodka and wine in the kitchen to not care about his heart ever again.
None of that—not the concept of food, not the drinking himself into oblivion, not getting up and going on with life, hollowed out and eviscerated—sounded like anything he wanted to do.
He had a heart again because of Justin. He knew he did because it crumpled, bewildered, wanting to know what he’d unwittingly caused.
If Justin needed to leave, needed to be strong alone or with someone else, then Kris himself would never be the same; the person he was would wither and die, but if Justin would be happier, he’d fade into obscurity willingly. He’d take the blow, because he could feel it, now, and that was more than he’d had in so long, and more than he deserved; Justin had been a gift. He could only be thankful.
He just wished he knew what he’d done to end the world. He just wis
hed he could hear why. A few more words. In Justin’s voice.
His fingers felt strange. Chilled and clumsy. When had his apartment become so dim? Had the grey of the day followed him in? Had it been minutes, or hours?
And the air broke apart.
It cracked into bonfires and autumn leaves and the taste of cinnamon. Fire flicked through the space beside his sofa. Enchanted light drenched his face. And Justin’s voice was saying, rapid and tripping over syllables and undeniably present, “Kris, Kris, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—I did mean to, I panicked, but I was coming back, I was always coming back, I just couldn’t—I’m here, look at me, look at me, please, I love you.”
Kris looked. Couldn’t not. That voice.
Justin, on both knees and clinging to Kris’s hands, pleaded, “I know I left. I’m here now. I’m sorry. I just needed to—not be here. For a minute.”
“I don’t understand.” He held those hands. They were real. When he reached out, Justin’s hair was real, Justin’s leaning into the touch was real. “You needed—why did you—”
“I got scared.” Justin exhaled, got up, sank onto the sofa at his side. “I’m so sorry. I came back as soon as I stopped to think.”
“You—you were scared?”
“Not of you! Not ever of you. Not like that.” Demon-hair cast leaping light across the sofa. The day wasn’t so grey. Not anymore. “I know you won’t hurt me.”
Kris couldn’t talk. Knots of emotion in his throat. Choking.
“I know what it was. I know why. It’s me, it’s my fault, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Justin rubbed his hands, held them more tightly, worried. More of that demon heritage showed itself, enhanced by wherever he’d been. New suggestions of sharpness around teeth, cheekbones, translucent curving horns. Redder skin. Brighter eyes. But himself, recognizable and here and tangible, fretting. “Your fingers are freezing. Didn’t you want to turn on the heat? Or grab a blanket?”
“No,” Kris said, honesty stumbling out around the knots.
“Oh, Kris.” Justin bent that head. Kissed each finger in turn. Each finger got warmer. Wouldn’t dare do anything else. “I’m sorry. Here.” Their blanket—the one they’d shared once before, a stalwart defender—settled around him. “What else? Tea? I can get you tea.”
Kris whispered, “You’re here.”
“I’m here.”
“Why?”
“Because I love you.”
He said it so simply, so readily; Kris’s eyes burned. He should’ve been the one offering reassurance and blankets; he did not yet known what he’d caused, but it’d been enough to make his demon feel scared. He had to make amends. He had to take care of Justin, who needed him. “I love you—I’m sorry, I—I meant why—what did I—”
“Honestly?” Justin hesitated, squeezed his hands beneath blanket-comfort, met his aching gaze and took the question seriously. “It was you saying that. In public.”
“Oh…of course you…you didn’t want to tell anyone…” Of course Justin must be ashamed of him. Not wanting him after all. Too old. Too washed-up. Too ridiculous: an ancient rock star who needed someone else to be any good. He stared at his boots. His eyes hurt. He hurt.
“No, no, not like that, quit thinking—” Justin dove in to kiss him. To throw arms around him. “No. I’d say it anywhere. You can shout it from rooftops if you want. I want everyone to know. I love you.”
“Then what—”
“You did it…” A deep breath. A release. “You did it without asking me. Whether I’d want that. Telling the world.”
The bottom fell out of that world. No solid ground. He had. He hadn’t thought. “Oh gods—Justin, I didn’t mean—I’m sorry—” The apology failed, faltered, died: inadequate.
He knew about David and control. He knew about Justin learning to choose for himself again. He knew.
What he’d done might not have mattered to someone else. For Justin it did. It mattered.
He’d thought before that he’d known heartbreak. He’d been wrong. He couldn’t even breathe. Crushed and struggling. Caving in.
He had to make this better. He had to; even if Justin walked away, there had to be some way to make the hurt less—to make the person he loved hurt less—
He couldn’t begin to think of how. Projection of emotions, celebrity, money: none of those would erase the moment when Justin had heard yet another choice taken away.
“No,” Justin said again, hand on Kris’s arm. Over—he blinked—those demon-marks. “No. It’s not—I’m all right. That’s why I came back. You’re not him. I know you aren’t. We’re okay.”
“But I—what I did, to you—”
“I panicked because it felt too much like—like before—”
Kris’s heart gave way a little more. Shattered by admission.
“—and I needed to get out of there.” Justin’s hand tightened on his arm. “I’m not saying it’s a good reflex. Running. I think—I think we’ll both need to work on this. Together. But you didn’t do it to control me. You did it because you were happy, and excited, and you want to be with me, and—and I’m not upset about what you did. Only that you didn’t ask me. I want this. I want you. I’m happy with you.”
“I am—with you—Justin, I’m so sorry. I am. I should’ve—are you—what can I do?” Something. Some task. Some atonement. Please.
“I want this,” Justin said again. “I want to do this. To figure out how to do this. With you. And me. I love you. I’m in love with—are you crying?”
“No,” Kris said. He was.
“I love that you are,” Justin said. “I love your bad puns about gingerbread. I love waking up with you. I ran because I got scared, and I came back because I’m choosing this, with you. I heard your version of that Pictsies song. I did hear it. I love it. I’m here. I’m home. Did you say hazelnut mocha, this morning?”
Kris looked at him, demon hair and vivid eyes, eyeliner and black leather jacket, scared and determined and ruffled from dimension-hopping, morning sunshine bouncing off his shoulder and an eyebrow and emotion; Kris looked at him choosing to be here, forgiving, and started to speak, started over, managed, “Any flavor you want…I—we?—might have to do some shopping…”
“I like peppermint. If we’re thinking holidays.” The sunshine had snuck through windowpanes and spilled along the floorboards. It crept up along the side of Justin’s face, and twined gold through fire-fronds.
“I can buy you peppermint coffee. Where’d you go? If I can ask? Home?”
“Oh.” Justin, without letting go, twitched an elbow at the coffee-table and a plastic container. “Aunt Mara’s. You know. The otherworld. When I said I wanted to not be here…Anyway she mostly told me that men were awful and useless and not worth my feelings, and then she fed me deviled eggs because I needed food. They’re really good. I brought you some.”
“Deviled eggs,” Kris said.
“I love you,” Justin said. “If you’re wondering about the horns and the ears and the everything, it’ll fade once I’ve been back in human space for a few hours, it doesn’t last. Also I think my aunts burned down David’s apartment complex. Did you know about that? Aunt Mara was very careful not to outright tell me.”
“They might have,” Kris admitted. “I’m going to pretend I never heard anything about it. I love you. I’m sorry, and I love you. I love your horns and your ears and your everything, whatever you want to look like. I can work on this. Asking you. We can do this. You said so. Can I feed you more? If you still need food?”
Can I, he was asking. Forever. For this future you came back to find. Us, and your work, and music, and you in my arms. Wanting this. Smiling.
“Yes,” Justin said. “Yes, you can, of course you can,” and Kris put arms around him and kissed him, thinking of peppermint and Midwinter, thinking of a line of melody like a carol scored in silver and sugar, thinking of his demon and so many coffee-scented mornings to come and beginnings.
Justin had said yes, and so
they could begin; he could offer comfort in the form of food, as promised. Justin laughed at first, but then looked at Kris’s face and stopped laughing. Put out a hand and cupped his cheek, drew him closer, left a kiss and a vow against his lips. “I’m here. I’m okay. I really am.”
“I know. I know you are. I just…” Need to be sure. Need to feel every bit of you. Need to put you on your knees again so you’ll look up at me with those eyes and say yes. Need to care for you, always, always. To give you what you need.
“I need to,” he admitted finally. Justin nodded, understanding every word he did and did not say, every word that shook itself loose from his soul, and then took Kris’s hand, very gently, and kissed it again: lips over the back, earnest and lingering, a suggestion and a submission.
Kris felt his next breath splinter like cracked sugar, like crystals; he waited until Justin looked up and shook hair out of demon-eyes, and then wrapped his hand around that thin wrist. His fingers, hard enough to be felt but not to bruise, tanned over red-flushed skin.
Justin trembled in place. With recognizable want. With a gasp of “Yes—!”
Kris kept the hand around his wrist, not exactly a leash, while guiding them into the kitchen. Once there he had a minor crisis over available food. An apple? A sandwich? His demon could use calories and energy, but assembling anything would be difficult without letting go, and he didn’t want to—
Justin said, “Can I make a suggestion?”
“You don’t have to ask me about asking questions, if—”
“Just for right now. With your hand where it is.” With a glance at, and a smile at, the hand in question. “Can I just conjure up something, I’ll pay for it, obviously—”
“Maybe you can. Will you make yourself more tired?”
This got a grin. With the horns and the needle-cousin teeth, this expression might’ve come out frightening; this was Justin, so it never would be. “Like this? No. I’m less human right now.”