Staccato (Magnum Opus #2) - E.M. Lindsey Page 0,28
shrugged out of his jacket. He wasn’t in the mood for his brother’s teasing—his anxiety about the upcoming concerts and appearance of critics eating away at him. “I was at St. Michael’s, and you and I both know I don’t have a boyfriend.”
“So, what do you call that guy?” Van asked, following Nik into the kitchen. “Fuck buddy? Friends with benefits? I have no idea what kids are saying these days.”
He ignored his brother for a moment, reaching for the kettle. It was heavy with water, so he flipped the button, then rummaged through the cabinets for his tin of loose Earl Grey. His infuser was where he always left it, a metal, egg-shaped thing, and he stuffed it full before reaching for his mug.
“The silent treatment?” Van prodded.
Nik shook his head, hands curled on top of the counter, and he breathed through his desire to lash out. “If I ask you to lay off for the rest of the week…?”
“Are you sensitive because you finally want to bring someone home?” Van asked.
A hot flush crept up the back of his neck, and he rubbed at it with his free hand. “Do you enjoy this? Do you enjoy making my shit day worse?”
“Hey,” Van said quietly, and Nik heard him take a step farther into the kitchen. By nature—by necessity, Nik was a tactile person. His world existed in smells, sounds, and touch. But Van was the opposite and gave only the bare minimum, so Nik wasn’t expecting the hand on his shoulder, and he only just managed to restrain his flinch. “I was just giving you shit. I’m sorry.”
With a sigh, Nik shook his head and gently stepped away from his brother’s grasp. “It’s fine. It’s just been a long week. I have this relentless parent trying to bully me into making space for her kid, and with the stress of critics coming to this show…” He trailed off, rubbing at his eyelids, then turned back toward the counter.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“Not really,” Nik started, because his brother would never really get it. Van wasn’t around when he was in Manhattan. He’d come to a few concerts, but he’d never been involved in what Nik’s day to day was like. He hadn’t been there during the elation of good reviews—during the bookings for more events, and the calls for interviews, and the media praise. And he wasn’t around when the critics dragged Nik to hell and back, when the calls stopped coming in, when he started to starve for even the most menial invite.
His career had been so up and down, and this sorry elementary school job felt like a kick to the gut, because it felt like it was the only thing he was good for these days. He wasn’t ready to lose his dream entirely, but this was all he had. A handful of students with wealthy, barely-there parents, and a couple of critics from the city. It was a sad, sorry imitation of the life he had just barely managed to graze with the tips of his fingers before the universe stole it away.
“It’s been a while since I’ve had my music played for an audience or for critics. It’s just heavy,” he finally said. He heard Van shift, like maybe he was going to take his arm again, but the touch never came.
Nik tried not to follow it, to search for it, no matter how desperately he wanted to be comforted. Instead, he curled his fingers around the handle of the tea pot and poured until his liquid indicator beeped at him. He tapped it on the counter, then set it off to the side and held the cup to his nose.
The tea was fragrant, still fresh from his last trip to the shop, and he let the steam sink into his skin. He could hear his brother breathing a few steps away, and the occasional shuffle of his feet.
“Tell me what Adam looks like,” he finally said.
Van coughed in surprise. “When have you ever given a shit what someone looks like? Do you even know what I look like?”
Nik smiled over the rim of his cup. “No. Tell me anyway.”
Van groaned, and Nik heard the squeak as he pulled a stool away from the breakfast bar and sat. “I don’t know. He’s shorter than you, but you probably know that.”
Nik shrugged. He had guessed, but he hadn’t confirmed for himself.