Robbie's point of view
Two hours had gone by since Mark had left and I was still lying in bed, full of self-loathing, numb, drowsy and depressed as I tried to figure out how to fix things between us. He was my rock and I didn't know what to do without him. I hated myself for literally pushing him away because of my self-destructive behavior.
However, No matter how hard I turned things over in my head, I always ended up at the same conclusion, I was famous. Way too famous for my own good. And it complicated everything. It had led me into this situation. I wished I knew what to do not to let fame completely destroy me and rob me of everything that was good in my life, from everything that could keep me sane.
Still, I didn't think rehab was the answer. I didn’t need it. I wasn’t an alcoholic or a drug addict. I didn't need to down a bottle of vodka or to do a line of cocaine in the morning to get through the day. I didn’t drink to survive, I only had a drink when I was out partying, like everyone else.
My phone buzzed. I prayed it was Mark, that somehow he’d changed his mind. But it wasn’t. It was a WhatsApp message from Tom:
"Band meeting in the hotel restaurant in half an hour. You’d better all be there. You’ve got some explaining to do."
'There you go' I thought, 'another lecture'. He had to know Mark had left.
I took another shower and got dressed. The room felt impossibly empty without Mark. He’d taken all his things. We had never been apart for more than a few days in years, the longest being when he went to France for the summer as a kid. How was I supposed to survive without him for god knows how long? And what made him think that he could do it?
I went down to the hotel restaurant. I was the last one to get there. It seemed like Jordan and Damon had just arrived though and the two empty glasses on the table indicated that Tom and Dylan had been sitting there for some minutes.
I sank into the last available chair and stayed silent, refusing to look at any of them. I hoped it would be enough to just sit there and take the lecture - I had no intention of talking.
For a few seconds, no one spoke. None of us wanted to admit our mistakes or start a painful conversation about the consequences of our actions and how badly they could impact the band’s future.
The heavy silence made Damon restless. “Are we waiting for Mark? Where is he?”
I glanced at Dylan, searching for a clue. He looked back at me with a hard to read expression, as if he was mad at me but also felt bad for me.
“He won’t be coming,” he said. “He left for the airport about an hour ago.”
Jordan’s eyes narrowed as he looked at me before turning to Dylan.
“He did what?”
“Shit!” Damon exclaimed. “He did it?”
His gaze shifted to me, as if trying to gauge how I was holding up. “He warned me he might, though,” he added, his voice hesitant.
I furrowed my brow. “Well, thanks for telling me,” I said bitterly.
“I didn’t think he was serious,” Damon said. Then he turned to Dylan. “Did you know?”
“Of course. I spent an hour with him, talking about the three of you again…” Dylan’s tone was flat.
“And you didn’t try to stop him?” I asked, frustrated
I was beginning to realize that I was taking it out on them, when they really didn't have much to do with the problems Mark and I were having. I was the only one responsible for him leaving.
Dylan’s expression stayed steady.
“No, Rob. I didn’t. I agreed with him two hundred percent. That’s all we could talk about, what to do about the three of you.”
I shook my head, stung that he hadn’t even told me Mark wanted to leave.
"Where did he go?" I asked him insistently, demanding an answer which he didn't give me.
"You know where he went, so just tell me." I insisted.
He sighed before answering. He knew I wouldn't let it go.
"He went to New York for now. He's gonna stay with Jimmy. He wants to finish editing the songs and work on a few demos with him."
Jordan raised his eyebrows and breathed, "well, at least he still cares about the band."
"Oh! 'Cause he's the one who doesn't care?" Dylan snapped at him.
"I didn't mean it like that," he replied.
"Jeez, Jordan, you need to fucking grow up," he said angrily to him.
Clearly, Mark wasn't the only one to be mad at us.
"We're the only ones who seem to care! We've been doing everything lately, and you three just go out and party. That's not how it works. We're all supposed to be involved."
“Oh, come on!" Jordan responded, hardly containing his frustration, "You make it sound as if we haven’t been doing anything."
"Well, you haven't been doing much!" he exclaimed.
"We’re allowed to go out for a few drinks at the end of the day if we fucking feel like it.”
“Yeah, sure," Dylan agreed. "As long as you’re still able to function properly the next day!"
"We've never missed a recording session, have we?" Jordan said, defending himself.
"We don't need you to just stand there and play what we tell you to play or sing what we tell you to sing," he said to us and then focused on me.
"You just take it for granted that Mark will do all the song writing when you used to do it with him…. When we ALL used to do it with him," he added, also blaming Jordan and Damon.
I opened my mouth to say something, but quickly admitted to myself that I couldn't argue. We had expected Mark to do all the work and I hadn’t been involved much in the songwriting process.
"Basically, you all expect him to come into the studio with fully written songs or to do all the editing on the ones we've already recorded, so you don't have to put in the work.
That’s not how we work and you know that!"
"Oh, c'mon," Jordan began saying, "We've recorded enough songs already. Why can't you two be happy with what we've written for once!"
“Are you serious?” Dylan asked. “They’re still amateurish. Far from ready to release. Maybe enough for an okay album, but is that what you want? To settle for okay?”
“Well, do we have a choice?” Jordan asked.
“For fuck’s sake," Dylan snapped. "Most of the songs we’ve recorded so far aren’t good enough. They could be so much better. Mark and I have been writing new stuff, and we’re not going to settle. We’re not going to let you release a crappy record because you’re too wrapped up in yourselves to care.”
I shook my head and said, “I’ve said from the beginning that we should've focused on writing and recording. But nooo, we have to be all over the place.”
“Right.” Dylan said. “That’s a valid point. But we were all ok with doing it this way.”
So far Damon hadn't dared say anything. He quietly tried to find a solution.
“Can’t the album release be postponed? We can’t meet the deadlines, everyone knows that.”
“Damon,” Tom finally cut in, “if we postpone the album, we postpone the tour. And if we postpone the tour, we’re talking at least a year! Venues have been booked for months. So many people are relying on this. We have to consider everything before we make a decision.”
“The tickets haven’t gone on sale,” I said.
“Yes, I know. But this will still cost the label, and they won’t like it.”
“Well, fuck the label,” I shot back.
“That’s very mature,” Tom muttered dryly.
“Yeah. It’s not like they haven’t already made a shitload of money off us,” I snapped.
“Alright, enough!” Tom barked back, but I honestly didn’t give a shit. He was partly responsible for the insane schedule we’d been forced to keep, and I was furious.
“I’ve let this go on for far too long,” he continued. “Yes, you lads are only twenty-seven, and yes, you’re allowed to have some fun… and yes, we’re in Amsterdam,” he added pointedly at Jordan. “But getting shitfaced every day and not giving a damn about what needs to be done? Absolutely not.” His voice hardened. “If you want to behave like stupid, irresponsible kids, I can treat you as such. That’s all you’ve done since recording started, and it cannot continue. It’s time to stop fucking around and take things seriously. You’ve got deadlines to meet.”
I looked up at him and he pointed a finger straight at me.
“And don’t you dare tell me to fuck the deadlines too.”
“Alright,” I said dryly. “I’m only thinking it really hard.” I couldn’t help being a smartass. “We should be allowed to release an album when it’s actually ready, not when it suits some fucking label.”
“Rob, it’s not just the label,” Tom replied. “The fans are expecting a new record by the end of the year, and a tour next summer.”
“Well, they’ll just have to wait,” I shot back. I knew it was unreasonable. That’s what we’d told the media. But I was done destroying myself just to keep everyone else happy.
Tom looked down, sighed, and paused for a moment before lifting his eyes again, defeated.
“Is that really what you want? To postpone everything?”
“We can’t do that,” Damon said immediately, rubbing his face.
“Damon, I used to have complete faith in your ability to work under pressure,” Tom said quietly. “But this time, I don’t see how you could possibly keep the promises you’ve made - to the public or the label.”
Then he turned back to me, his tone softer.
“Rob… you told Mark that you wouldn’t do drugs like that again. Did you really mean it?”
I didn’t answer.
"What about you?" he asked Jordan, who just shrugged, just as annoyed as I was by this lecture.
“Rob,” Tom continued, addressing me directly, “we all know you’re going through something. You’ve been emotionally all over the place lately. And instead of trying to understand why, I ignored it. I assumed you were burnt out and that it would pass. I shouldn’t have done that.”
He paused.
“We’ve been too busy, too wrapped up in everything that needed to be done, but things have gone too far. I’m sorry I let it go on for this long. I’ve been your manager for over seven years. I’ve watched you grow from boys into men. I probably know you better than your own parents at this point.” His voice dropped. “And as a father, I wouldn’t want to see my son behaving the way you are. I’d be deeply concerned, worried sick.”
The word concerned hung in the air.
“Cocaine?” he added quietly. “Is that really the kind of band you want to become? You were raised better than that. You know better.”
Still, I said nothing.
“What do you want, Rob?” he asked.
I shrugged.
“To not be famous anymore. To have a normal life again.” I let out a hollow laugh. “Can you make that happen?”
Tom sighed and stayed silent for a moment.
No one spoke. No one moved. I didn’t look at any of them.
“Alright,” Tom finally said, standing up. “I’ll make a few calls and cancel the interview and TV appearance in Madrid on Monday.” He looked back at us. “But we’re not done talking about this.”
Then he walked out of the restaurant.
The silence he left behind was heavy.
Damon shifted uncomfortably and finally broke it.
“Damn… you really fucked things up last night, didn’t you?” He shook his head. “Coke and alcohol? Aren’t you afraid of anything?”
Jordan chuckled,
"I think we felt invincible last night."
“You’re not, though,” Damon said, watching us carefully before adding, “Well… the fun’s over. We’re gonna have to rethink our priorities.”
Dylan nodded. “Thank you! Because, contrary to what you seem to think, the album’s not gonna write itself, and no one’s planning every little detail of the tour for us.”
“Rob?” Damon called after a moment of silence.
“Rob?” he tried again.
I looked up.
“Seriously. Can you talk to us? How’re you feeling?” he asked, concern clear in his voice.
“Right now? Like I’ve been run over by a bus and had my heart ripped out of my chest.”
Jordan leaned closer and whispered, “A bit of an exaggeration, no?”
I glared at him.
He chuckled. “Okay, fair enough.”
“I can’t believe he left,” I sighed.
“He’ll be back,” Jordan said, trying to reassure me. “He just wants to teach you a lesson.”
“Rob,” Dylan breathed, “he just wants you to be okay. That’s what we all want. Let’s be honest, you’re losing control. You’ve been putting too much pressure on yourself, going out way too much… this isn’t like you. That’s not how you get ready for a world tour. The last one was brutal, and look at you, you’re already exhausted.”
I sighed again and said nothing. I was done defending myself. They seemed to have me all figured out anyway.
“Alright,” Dylan continued, “I’m pretty sure Tom’s gonna cancel everything he scheduled for us… so here’s what’s gonna happen.”
Jordan snickered, interrupting.
“Mark’s fucking gone. What are we supposed to do without him anyway? I’d say everything’s on hold for now.”
“You know he needs a break too!” Dylan exclaimed. “He can’t do it all alone. That’s not fair to him. He’s had enough of your bullshit… and so have I.”
“Why doesn’t he just say so instead of leaving?” Jordan muttered.
“Are you kidding me?” Dylan snapped. “How many times have we tried to talk to you? You just chose not to listen. Maybe this time, you’ll get it.”
He turned to me. “You… you’re gonna fly to L.A. and go to this place.” He showed me the rehab center webpage on his phone.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Will you all cut it out with the rehab bullshit. I’m not a freaking alcoholic.”
“No one said you were,” Dylan said. “Don’t get all defensive on me. That’s not why we want you to go. But right now, you need to stop with all the partying, the drinking… all of it. You need to take care of yourself and your voice if you want to be ready - mentally and physically - for the next tour. Because right now? You’re not. And if you keep going like this, you never will be.”
“Maybe I don’t want to be!” I snapped. “And I don’t want to go there alone. What do you expect me to do there? Sit around bored out of my mind?”
"No, you won't. It'll be good for you. To get away for a while and to be on your own."
I shook my head and he turned to Damon and Jordan,
"And you. You're gonna go back to Dublin and stay with your folks for a while. You've been pampered too much. Everyone telling us how great we are, you need to go back to your house and get in trouble for not putting the milk away. Should be enough for you!"
"Can't I just do that too?" I exclaimed.
“Has Tom talked to our folks?” Jordan asked worriedly.
“He’s had your dad on the phone,” Dylan said slyly. “He’s expecting you.” Jordan's dad was the kind to keep a close watch on his kids, and now that we were famous, he was constantly making sure we were all doing fine.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. What has he told him? He’s gonna kill me.”
“We sure hope he does,” Dylan said, half-joking.
“I don’t need my father lecturing me. I’m a grown man.”
“Then start acting like one.”
Tom returned to the table and sat down.
“Alright,” he announced, “let’s start making some much-needed changes…”
-------
Mark's point of view
I’d been in New York for almost two weeks, and I’d only spoken to Rob twice.
For a couple of days after leaving Amsterdam, he kept texting, calling, leaving message after message, asking me to come home. He was back in London, still refusing to go to Los Angeles. At first, I didn’t answer. I was angry - and more than that, I needed him to understand that I wasn’t coming back. Not yet.
When I finally did pick up, we talked surprisingly calmly about everything that had happened.
“Rob,” I said at one point, trying to make him understand what I’d only recently begun to understand myself, “I know we always said the band and the fans would come first, no matter what. But right now, you need to be a little selfish. You need to go to L.A. I want you to go.”
He didn’t say anything, so I kept going.
“You can rest. Talk to therapists. Let someone help you make sense of everything that’s happened to us. You can’t keep living like this. I want you to feel comfortable in your own skin again - so you can actually enjoy it.”
“It’s not that I hate it,” he said quietly. “I love performing…” His voice trailed off before he could finish the thought.
“I know,” I replied gently. “But it’s getting harder for you every day. You’re struggling more than you want to admit. So much that you don’t even know how to be yourself anymore. I want the real you back. I want you to be happy - with what we have, with what we do.”
He let out a long, heavy sigh and stayed silent for a moment.
When he finally spoke, there was anger beneath his words.
“So what is this?” he asked. “Are you breaking up with me? Is that what this is? Is this you leaving me?”
I didn’t answer right away. I hated this conversation. Hearing his voice made my chest ache, made tears burn behind my eyes. I forced myself not to cry.
“No,” I said eventually. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t want to be without you.”
“Then don’t be,” he snapped, the frustration clear now. “You really think you leaving is going to help me? Come on, Mark, how is that supposed to help?”
“I’ve tried everything else,” I said. “All I do is love you and try to help you, but you won’t let me. I can’t be with you right now if you keep shutting me out and numbing yourself with alcohol and drugs. I won’t stand by and watch you do that.”
“Fine,” he snapped. “You want me to talk? I’ll talk. What do you want me to say, that I’m exhausted? That I’m sick of it?”
I didn’t answer.
“Yes, I am exhausted and I’m fucking tired of it. Of course, I am. I’m tired of trying to meet everyone’s expectations - yours included. Now please, just come home so we can work this out together.”
Again, I said nothing. But I’d heard him.
I couldn’t blame him for trying. Still, he knew I wasn’t coming back unless he agreed to get help. We couldn’t fix us while he refused to face what was tearing him apart.
“Mark, I don’t need therapy,” he said after a pause. “I just need time to recharge.”
“You know you’re the only one who believes that,” I interrupted gently. “There’s nothing wrong with admitting you’re losing control and need help. You can pretend everything’s fine and lie to everyone else, but not to me. You’ve never had to pretend with me.”
He let out a heavy sigh.
“It doesn’t matter what I say,” he said. “You don’t want to slow things down. None of you do. You’re all fine with the way things are, so why shouldn’t I be?”
“Because you’re allowed to say you don’t want this anymore,” I said quietly. “You’re the one standing in the biggest spotlight. And instead of telling me you’ve had enough, you’re pushing me away.” My voice softened. “I know you don’t want to hurt me or dump your problems on me. But we’re in this together. If you’re not okay, then I’m not okay. And if you’re not physically or mentally able to go back on tour and do this all over again, then none of us are.”
I took a breath.
“So if you need a break, then fine, we stop everything. But you have to actually use that time to face what’s hurting you. And you have to do that on your own.”
He was quiet for a moment, then spoke. “I don’t want to be by myself.” His voice trembled. “I miss you. I don’t know how to be without you.”
“I miss you too,” I whispered.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. Then he let out another heavy sigh.
“But you’re not coming back…”
“No,” I said softly, shaking my head even though he couldn’t see it.
I closed my eyes and almost felt him there with me, imagined holding him, imagined taking the weight of everything off his shoulders. In that moment, I would have taken all of his pain if I could, even knowing I was the one causing it.
When the call ended, the guilt hit me all at once.
He had finally admitted what I’d been afraid to hear, that he wasn’t enjoying any of this anymore. That being this famous made him feel sad and depressed most of the time, when it used to make him feel alive. All I could do was hope he would finally start acknowledging that he needed help - real help - to survive fame without letting it destroy him.
Going out every night and drinking too much was one thing. Getting high was something else entirely.
I had expected him to do cocaine again. Part of me was almost waiting for him to break that promise, and I already knew that when he did, I wouldn’t let it slide. I couldn’t. Because if I didn’t stop it the first time, or the second, there’d be a third, a fourth… and then he’d start lying… and then he’d shut me out even more. And once that happened, it would be so much harder to make him stop.
I couldn’t let him fall into a destructive relationship with drugs, one he might not be able to escape. If he started using them to cope with the overwhelming pressure, they would only offer temporary relief. He would keep going, even while knowing the damage it was doing. That was already happening. Going out constantly, partying too much, choosing distraction instead of being fully present - none of it was random. It was why he was no longer as dedicated to the band as he used to be.
To most people, he still looked happy. Like someone who had it all. But I wasn’t fooled. I knew how hard it was for him to cope with fame, stardom, wealth, the pressure to perform, the impossible expectations, and above all the relentless public scrutiny that came with it. Lately, it felt like we were caught in a perfect storm, the kind that could lead anyone down a dangerous path of self-destruction. I knew addiction was progressive, and that if we didn’t confront it now, things would only get worse.
Over the next few days, fighting the urge to call or text him became almost unbearable. I was so used to sharing everything with him that his absence felt unnatural. I missed his voice. I missed talking and laughing with him, kissing him, waking up beside him, feeling his body close to mine in the morning. There was an emptiness in my chest I wasn’t used to - one I wasn’t sure I could ever fill without him.
Still, no matter how badly I missed him, I knew I had to give him space, even if he didn’t believe he needed it. He had to learn how to take control of his own life again, to understand why he was unhappy, without me holding him up.
Every time I felt the need to call him, I backed down because I just couldn’t hear his voice again. I knew that if I called, he might say something that would make me want to be on the next flight home. But I couldn’t do that. Not yet.
So I tried to remind myself of the many reasons why I had made the decision to leave. They were all valid, but for some reason, when I found myself missing him, they didn’t seem so valid anymore.
Still, I had sworn to myself that I would not go back to him unless he went to LA, or at least agreed to some sort of therapy, and I was determined to stick to my word.
I loved him and missed him, but I was also very angry. I didn’t need any apologies from him. I knew what he was going through and I couldn’t blame him for struggling to adjust to life as a celebrity. He had lost his freedom little by little - much more than I had - and now he was starting to lose himself.
But he had stopped making me and the band a priority. He ignored what I said, shut me out, and took our success for granted. He didn’t want to work to stay at the top. He had taken me for granted. And it fucking hurt.
We couldn’t move forward as long as he refused to get the help he needed, and the band couldn’t move forward either. Our relationship and the band were linked. We couldn’t truly have one without the other.
Since I couldn’t talk to him directly, I clung to any way I could stay connected. I was on the phone with Rachel or Dylan every day, just to hear how he was doing and whether he was considering going to L.A. Jane, his mother, had called me several times to get a clearer picture of what was happening. I knew she was in London to try and talk some sense into him, and so was his father.
In New York, I stayed with my friend Jimmy. I had to keep myself busy, and playing music was all that kept me from losing my mind over Rob. I didn’t feel much like working and couldn’t focus properly in the studio, but I had promised Jimmy I’d come to edit some of our songs.
I knew the release of our record had been postponed and there were no deadlines pressing down on us. But maybe going to New York to work on a few songs made me feel like I wasn’t completely giving up on the band - just in case there was even a small chance we could still do what we’d promised the fans: release our fourth album in October and hit the road for a tour in April.
Jimmy owned a huge apartment in New York, but he rarely spent more than an hour there during the day. He led a fast-paced life - leaving early in the morning, attending events late into the evening. He was the kind of guy who lived at a hundred miles per hour.
I was like that too, usually. But for the first few days in his apartment, I needed calm. I needed quiet to reflect on my life. So, I got used to his place, took walks around the city, and let the streets of New York fill my mind with something other than worry. In the afternoons, I worked with him for a few hours in the studio. Evenings were for dinners with friends I hadn’t seen in a while, catching up on lives I could only watch from afar over the past months.
A couple of days had passed since I’d last spoken to Rob on the phone. That evening, I was on my way back to Jimmy’s place after catching up with a couple of friends when my phone buzzed.
Sitting in the back of a cab, I felt my pulse spike as I unlocked it. A WhatsApp notification glowed on the screen. My breath hitched when I saw it was Rob.
"I miss you so much tonight. I'm lying in bed and I can't stop thinking of you. I'm not even touching myself and I'm totally hard. I wish you were here to cuddle with me baby. And then we'd make love. I miss your lips, your skin, your touch. I need to feel your body so bad, I can't handle it."
As I read, I felt my chest tighten, my stomach clench and my cock get hard. The prospect of going to bed alone became pretty excruciating. I would have loved nothing more than to feel him against me. This was exactly what stopped me from calling him. He knew what to say to make me want to run straight back and be with him. I pondered over whether I should text him back. I wasn't sure that sexting each other was a good idea but I was glad to see that, at least, he wasn't out again, drinking his sorrow away.
I was beginning to seriously miss having sex with him. It had always been very much part of our routine and lately, it was even more so. It seemed to be the only thing that brought us together and kept us connected since he would much rather fuck than talk about stuff. To me, it was beginning to feel like we spent time alone together only to have sex, which wouldn't have bothered me that much, had he not been so out of it the rest of the time.
We had never gone this long without having sex and it didn't matter whether or not I was mad at him, I needed sex as much as he did now and I decided to text him back. I got back to my apartment, even though it wasn't mine, but it was starting to feel like my place. I tossed my jacket on the living room couch and walked up the stairs. I began typing, feeling my erection grow harder in my jeans as I thought of him, naked, probably slowly stroking himself, wanting me.
"Just got back from dinner with Shawn and Charlotte. They're doing great. They've basically spent the whole year traveling around the world. So many things to talk about. I'm gonna grab a shower now. It might feel like something's missing in there … namely you on your knees taking care of that hard on you just gave me."
As I entered the bathroom in my bedroom, I placed my phone down on the stone ledge, knowing I'd soon receive a text from him.
I got undressed and stepped into the shower, which was a wonder of engineering and plumbing. It was as large as a small bathroom itself. It had a smooth, gray stone floor. Throughout the stone walls, there were nozzles that sprayed water in all heights and directions. There were shower heads in all four corners, and one giant shower head located in the ceiling that rained water directly on top of you. It was heaven. I began thinking that the shower Rob and I had paled in comparison and that we definitely needed to get one of these. And then, I felt sad and a bit worried. When would I be back in London?
I thought of him, lying in bed, probably naked as the day he was born and stroking his hard, smooth, thick cock. I pictured him playing with himself as I chose the water functions I wanted. The water was instantly warm and felt incredible against my body. I was a bit tense so I sighed in relief as some of the water pounded my shoulders, wishing Rob's hands were on me, massaging my shoulders and kissing my neck. I reached for the shower gel and started washing myself. I wrapped my hand around my cock and imagine it was Rob's ass. Though I couldn't begin to recreate the incredible feeling of being in him, the intensity of my stroking soon had me close to cumming. I stopped myself before going over the edge.
As soon as I stepped out, I grabbed a towel and quickly wiped off the excess water from my body. I picked up my phone to read his text,
"Good for them. Would've liked to see them again. Damn, I wish I was there with you to dry you off when you get out of the shower sexy, your body is so hot. And then I'd definitely drop to my knees and blow you til you spurt all you jizz in my mouth. Your hard dick tastes so good in my mouth. I hope you've been saving up for me. I'm so hungry for it"
I smiled and started stroking myself again as I rested my body against the stone ledge. It didn't take long before I could feel my cum building up and I was ready to burst again. I looked down at my cock, leaking profusely as I imagined his wet, hot mouth moving up and down my shaft. I threw my head back and came hard, shooting several long, white streams of cum onto my abdomen. Once my dick stopped spurting, I rinsed the cum off my hand and texted him back,
"Defo been savin' up. Got cum all over my chest now. It was awesome. You'd love to lick this off me. I might need another shower now"
I stepped into the shower again and washed the cum off my chest before reading his response,
"What a shame it's not in my mouth. I would've swallowed it all. I bet ur still hard. I wish you'd take me to bed, lick me all over and then fuck the cum right out of me. Your cock would feel so good inside of me I'd probably shoot without touching myself. I miss this. I miss you."
I walked over to my bed, climbed under the covers and started typing, pretty sure he hadn't cum yet,
"I miss you too. I'd love to kiss and lick you all over till my tongue runs up and down your crack and makes you tremble when I push it in and out to open you up. I'd make you beg for my cock. Then I'd shove it in you and pound your ass as hard as you want till I feel the cum blast out of you. I know how much you love to cum with my dick buried deep inside you. I love that too"
It didn't take him very long to answer,
"Damn, now I've got cum all over too and my hole is tingling, waiting for you. So when R U coming home to do that with me?"
I hesitated, not sure I wanted to ruin the moment, but finally typed,
"Nice try. When R U flying to LA?"
"I'd much rather fly to NY."
"I bet you would. I guess we'll have to keep having this daydream that one of us is inside the other, in some way :) until one of us gives in! U know it won't be me, so why wait?
'You're really not letting this go, are you?"
"I'm really not."
"Right now, I hate you just as much as I love you ;)"
"I know. Right back at you ;)"
"Good night. I might be dreaming of all the dirty things I'd like to do with you if you don't mind!"
"I don't mind. I know I'll wake up with something hard in my underwear. your sexy body will be all I think about when I jack off. Good night"
Over the next couple of days, we kept texting, mostly in the mornings and at night. It stayed light, never touching anything serious. Still, I kept thinking we probably ought to stop. I didn’t really know where we stood, and I knew he still wasn’t ready to listen to me or consider therapy.
One evening, he texted a simple message - nothing dramatic, nothing sexual, just raw and honest. My heart started racing. I knew it would be better not to talk to him, that if I did, I might cave. And yet, I couldn’t resist.
Can we talk? I need to hear your voice.
My chest tightened. I hesitated for only a second.
Call me, I replied.
The phone rang almost immediately.
“Just talk to me. What did you do today?” he asked softly, his voice trembling in a way that made my chest tighten even more.
I knew what that meant. No arguments. No explanations. Just the sound of my voice anchoring him for a moment. I told him everything - where I’d been, who I’d seen - keeping my voice low and steady, even though my heart was racing. Talking like this felt dangerously close to pretending things were normal.
Then I stopped talking and listened to his breathing. Slow. Uneven. Familiar. It made my stomach twist.
“I miss you,” he said quietly. “Please, come home.”
The words hit me harder than I expected. I’d known this would happen. I knew talking to him would be dangerous, that I’d want to cave. He knew it too - and I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to resist.
“Rob, I can’t do that,” I said, forcing myself to breathe. “Not yet.”
“Please,” he whispered. “I need you. Just… come home.”
I closed my eyes, my throat tightening, fighting the urge to say yes just to make the pain stop.
“We’ll be together again soon,” I said gently. “I’ll be there when you’re ready. But you have to do this - for me, for us, for yourself, for the band. I can’t keep fixing this for you. I can’t. And I won’t.”
“I miss you so much,” he whispered.
“I miss you too,” I admitted, my voice breaking despite myself. “But missing each other isn’t enough. You have to face this on your own.”
He didn't speak. The pause was heavy and unbearable.
“Why?” he eventually asked quietly. “I don’t know if I can.”
“You can,” I said, firmer now, holding onto the words as much as he was. “And you will, if you try. That’s all I’m asking. Just start. Just go. Start facing it.”
The line went silent again. I could hear his breathing, uneven, like he was fighting something inside himself, and losing. Then, barely above a whisper,
“I don’t want to lose you.”
My hand tightened around the phone. I pressed it closer to my ear, as if that could bridge the distance between us.
“You won’t,” I replied. “I’m not letting go of you, but I need you to do this, for us.”
Again, there was a pause.
“Tell me you love me…”
“I love you,” I said, the words slipping out immediately. “I love you so much.”
We stayed quiet for a few seconds longer, neither of us wanting to be the one to end it.
“Goodnight, babe,” I finally whispered.
“Goodnight.”
The line went dead, and I sat there holding the phone long after the call had ended, knowing I’d done the right thing, and that it still hurt like hell.
-----
I started going out more with Jimmy in the evenings, and I knew Rob was often out again too. He wasn’t texting me as much, and Rachel or Dylan would update me when they knew he was out. He told them he didn’t feel the need to go to therapy yet, that he wasn’t ready. They did their best to convince him, but in the end, it was really up to him.
I knew what he was doing. He was testing me - testing my resolve, testing how strong my feelings were and how long I could stand being without him. I knew he was waiting, hoping I’d cave, waiting for me to cave and come back to him so he wouldn’t have to go to L.A.
I didn’t know what else to do except throw myself into the album and hope that, by the time the work was finished, something - him, us, or both - would be clearer.
Jimmy led an interesting life and knew just about everyone. He was invited to all the trendy events so I went out every night, dining at gourmet restaurants, catching concerts, clubs, Broadway plays, and gallery openings. I was having a good time, though I often wished Rob could have been there with me.
One Thursday afternoon, I left Jimmy’s place around 1 p.m. to work on editing a couple of songs I still hoped might make it onto the album. When I arrived, I noticed a guy sitting on the stairs, checking his phone. I recognized him immediately.
"Hey," Damien said, smiling slightly, though he seemed reserved, like he wasn’t sure how I’d react.
"Hey," I replied, warily. What the hell was he doing here?
I hadn’t seen him - or heard from him - in over two years. He looked a little older, his hair longer, a day or two’s stubble that somehow suited him, and tanned in a way that made his blue eyes striking. He studied me as I searched for words, unsure how to ask him what he was doing here without sounding rude. I was about to talk but he beat me to it.
"I'm not stalking you," he said suddenly.
I opened my mouth but no words came. After a beat, I finally said. "That’s good to know."
He gave a small grin. "How’ve you been?"
"Good," I answered, watching him stand and walk closer.
"Yeah?" he said, his gaze lingering. "You look great."
We stood face to face for a moment before he explained his presence.
"I'm working at The Cutting Room with Alex Cooke… you had dinner with him on Sunday. He’s friends with Jimmy. He told me you were staying with him… and that you were alone?"
"I wasn’t alone," I replied.
He pursed his lips, tilting his head slightly. "You weren’t with your usual circle either. Aren’t you supposed to be super busy recording?"
"Yeah. I guess. But we’re taking a break. We’re all burnt out. We need some time off from the band."
"Oh," he chuckled softly, "you’re taking a break only a few months before the release?"
"I don’t think we’re gonna release it as planned."
"Are you postponing it?" he asked, a hint of shock in his voice.
"Probably, yeah," I said.
"Too bad," he muttered, sensing we were in a rough patch.
Then, hesitantly, "Sooo… are you taking a break from Rob too?"
I stared at him and looked away. He smirked.
"Don’t look so happy," I said, shaking my head slightly.
"I’m not. Just wondering," he shrugged.
"Well," I said, turning toward the studio door, "I should get going. Nice seeing you."
He seemed to sense I was cutting the conversation short.
"Hey, there’s this great coffee shop just around the corner. I’m sure you’ve been there. Want to grab a coffee when you’re done?"
I sighed. "I don’t think it’s a good idea."
"Come on, Mark. Just coffee. It’d be nice to catch up. I want to know how your last tour went."
I must have hesitated, because he added quickly. "I’m actually seeing someone… just in case you’re worried I might jump your bones."
"Good for you," I snorted, unconvinced. "Then what the hell are you doing here?" I asked, annoyed.
"I just want to know how you’re doing. I haven’t seen you in two years."
"Well, I’m doing fine. I guess you can go now that you have this information."
He nodded, smiling faintly. "How long d’you think you’ll be in there?"
"About three hours," I said with a shrug.
"Could you maybe use a sound engineer’s help? I’m free today."
"Is that how you want to spend your day off?" I chuckled.
"I guess it is," he said, waiting for my answer.
"We don’t need any help. I hope you won’t still be here when I come out."
His expression suggested he probably would be.
I stepped closer. "Let’s make one thing clear. Why I’m here without Rob is none of your business. I’m still with him and nothing’s changed."
“Alright, I get it. I told you, I’m seeing someone. But… so you know, moving on wasn’t easy,” he said, his lips twitching in a half-smile. “Why can’t we just catch up over a cup of coffee? What’s the big deal?”
"I hate coffee," I said dryly, turning on my heels and heading toward the studio door.
“Mark,” he called, stepping closer, his voice low and teasing. I turned to face him. “Are you just afraid of admitting you might enjoy my company?”
I smirked. “You know I enjoy your company… but you enjoy mine a little too much,” I teased, letting the words hang between us.
He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Guilty as charged.”
I gave him a small, amused smile before stepping into the studio, closing the door behind me.
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