Scott can’t stop fidgeting. He knows Carter must have noticed, but he can’t make himself stop. Everything he does feels wrong. If he picks up a fork, he worries it’s the wrong one for this course and puts it down again. If he tugs at his sleeves, trying to get them to stay put over his wrists, he wonders if maybe Carter liked them pushed up instead and moves them back. If he glances around the restaurant, a cold shot of fear goes through him like ice water, and he has to look back down, terrified that he might see someone staring at him. At them.
He suddenly hears his name and his gaze snaps back to Carter. Scott thinks maybe Carter’s been trying to get his attention for a while now.
“Are you all right, Scott?” he asks, looking politely concerned. Scott glances around again--he can feel so many eyes on him, burning him up. He smooths his napkin over his lap compulsively, rubbing the cloth flat against his leg.
“Yeah. Fine. Great,” he replies, hoping Carter won’t see through his faked enthusiasm. “What were you saying?”
Carter gives Scott a worried look, but he answers the question. “I was asking about the song you were working on yesterday. Is it something you might like to play on tour, you think? I’m gonna need music to change costumes to.”
Scott thinks back to the pile of scrap paper sitting in a drawer back home, notes and chords scrawled almost at random on them. There’s something there, he knows there is, but he can never get it to come together and be what it is. He ducks his head, wishing he could say yes and knowing he can’t.
“It’s not even really a song, just, I dunno, messing around.”
“I still want to hear it,” Carter says, smiling, and Scott can’t help smiling back.
Scott reaches for his wine glass and takes a long sip, and when he’s finished, he doesn’t want to put it back down. He holds the glass near his face, sets his lips on the edge, but doesn’t tip it up to drink.
“It’s good that you’re writing,” Carter continues, and Scott nods. “We should write together sometime. That would be cool, right?”
Scott rolls his eyes. “You can work with anybody. You don’t wanna write with me.”
Carter gives him a stern look. “Scott, I like your music. I’m not lying about that. If you don’t want to, that’s fine, but don’t put it on me, okay? Just say no. I’m a big boy, I can handle it.”
“I know you can,” Scott mutters, then drinks some more of his wine. He keeps sipping until his glass is empty, and even then he’s reluctant to put it down. Over the top of the glass, he sees Carter reach for the bottle and gesture towards Scott.
“You like the wine, baby?” Carter asks, and though Scott’s hardly tasting it as he drinks, he nods and sets his glass down for more. He kind of wishes Carter wouldn’t call him that. It always makes him feel so good at home, but here, it just makes him self-conscious, and he glances around the room again, not sure what he’s looking for.
The pretty blonde hostess who seated them returns with another couple in tow, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. Scott looks away from them as they pass, but then he hears them taking off their coats and sitting down at the next table, and he has to sneak a look. It’s a man and a woman, and like Carter and Scott, it looks like they’re out on a date. The hostess leans over the table and lights the candle for them, just like she did for him and Carter, and she hands them their menus with a smile before walking away.
The woman looks at her... boyfriend? Husband? Scott doesn’t know, but they seem close. She looks at him for a long moment, and then without warning, she turns her head and meets Scott’s eyes. He startles and sinks slower in his chair, whipping his hair out from behind his ear to cover his face. His cheeks feel hot, and Carter’s looking at him now too, and he suddenly hears the woman laughing, and her date joining in, and Scott looks over at Carter.
Then he looks down at their table. Back up at Carter. At the candle between them, the bottle of wine, the glasses and plates and silverware that’s way too expensive for him to be eating from. He doesn’t belong here, and he definitely doesn’t belong here with Carter. Carter’s comfortable -- he’s used to this kind of place. He fits in. Scott can’t stand it. He grabs for the bottle of wine, needing the refill to quiet his mind, but the bottle catches the edge of a plate and tilts, and then it’s slipping out of Scott’s grasp and falling, pouring out across his side of the table, all in horrible slow motion. Scott can’t even hear the noise it makes, his heart is pounding so loudly in his ears, but he knows it must’ve been obvious. Everyone’s looking at him now, and Carter’s reaching for him, concerned. Scott grabs the napkin from his lap and crumples it in his hand, blotting at the biggest puddle of wine on the tablecloth, but it’s useless, and he sees their waitress coming over with a towel. Scott pushes his chair back abruptly and stands.
“Need to-” he says, choking off the rest of his excuse.
“The bathrooms are to the left, down the hall,” Carter murmurs quietly. He’s not looking at Scott anymore. He’s embarrassed. Scott can tell. He can see it in the disappointed set of Carter’s mouth. Scott drops the napkin into his empty chair and takes off down the hall.
The bathroom is huge...like, really huge. There are couches. And there are flowers, and classical music playing, and way, way too many mirrors. Scott darts into an empty stall and shuts and locks the door behind him, leaning back against it and burying his face in his hands. He can’t do this, can’t believe he ever thought he might be able to in the first place. And he only has maybe a few minutes before Carter comes looking for him, and god, that’ll be worse, and he just can’t.
He reaches into his pocket for his phone, by sheer force of habit, and blinks at the screen through watery eyes, his fingers working through the icons without him even having to think about it. Just...something to distract him, just for a second. Anything. Something to make his heart feel a little less like it’s about to explode in his chest.
He taps through his texts and his email, and by the time he gets to Twitter he’s already feeling calmer, a little less lost in his own head. He likes Twitter, despite its flaws, likes the way it makes him feel connected to the world, to people he hasn’t seen in weeks or months or ever, and he skims through his feed slowly, smiling at tweets from Sophie and Mia and even Neil, who’s somehow found a way to tweet even from China, his latest venture. He takes a deep breath and leans his head back against the door. Maybe he can do this. It’s just a date. People go on dates all the time. He’s done this a hundred times before, and just because it’s with Carter doesn’t make it any different.
Well. Except that he likes Carter more than anyone he’s ever been out with before. Maybe. Probably. He ducks his head back down and smiles. He’s okay. They’re okay.
He reaches out to click out of the app, but taps the wrong place on the phone and ends up with his replies open instead. And god, he never reads these unless he’s exceptionally bored, because he’s learned over the years that it never leads to anything good. He means to close it this time without reading, too, but...something catches his eye, and then it’s too late. He can’t make himself look away.
It’s the same link over and over, all the way down, and Scott knows he shouldn’t click it...but the headline does exactly what it’s designed to do and draws him in anyway.
Jacob Cruz speaks out on his breakup with Carter Saint - and GSaint’s newly-turned boytoy!
The first thing Scott sees is a picture of Carter’s ex, looking vaguely away from the camera, wind blowing through his dark hair and face angular and perfect...and next to it, a picture of himself. He recognizes it instantly, from a gig months ago, and wrinkles his nose in disgust. There’s stubble all over his face, and his hair’s a mess, and his cheeks look fat and puffy, like a fucking chipmunk. He’s surrounded by middle-aged women wearing too much glitter. Signing, probably. He can’t think of a worse picture of himself, and he scrolls down quickly, just wanting to get away from it.
He skims through the first part of the article, which explains things he already knows. When and how Carter and Alex broke up, how famous Alex is versus how famous Carter is... And then he sees his own name.
Guitarist for Carter’s backing band Scott Ward has been spotted out and about with the famous singer. What does Jacob have to say about that? “Well, Carter certainly didn’t waste any time,” he told me in an exclusive phone interview. “Of course he’s going to go out and fuck the first thing he sees. The guy was there, so Carter took advantage. It’s what he does.”
Scott scrolls down some more, feeling sick to his stomach. He spots another mention of his name, and another quote from Alex.
But you remember Scott from way back when! He was the one Carter kissed on the American Music Awards, causing scandal and resulting in getting Carter banned from certain networks! At the time, of course, Carter insisted Scott was straight, and wouldn’t blame him for anything. Jacob tells me: “Yeah, he’s straight. You know why Carter went for him, right? It’s not that he likes corrupting the innocent or whatever. It’s that the innocent--those straight boys--don’t know any better.” Know any better about what? He explains. “Carter thinks he’s hot shit, and the world at large seems to believe him. I can’t believe anyone actually thinks his stage persona is anything like the truth. He’s an awful fuck, and he clings like a sixteen year old girl. Getting out of that relationship was the best thing I ever did. I say, if Scott wants him, he can keep him.” Well, in that case, good luck to Scott! Seems like he has a lot to look forward to.
The phone falls out of Scott’s shaking hands and hits the floor, and Scott squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he can. His stomach is churning, and it feels like there’s something wrapped painfully tight around his chest, pushing everything in too close, until even breathing hurts. And he’s running out of time, has to go back out there and face Carter’s eyes and the laughing couple and a plate of insanely expensive food he knows he won’t be able to touch. His stomach turns at the mere thought of eating.
He wishes instead that he could go back, back to before he and Carter slept together. Before they’d ever kissed. Before he’d even heard Carter’s name. Maybe even all the way back, before he decided to take up the guitar. It all led him here, and here is fucked up. He just...he can’t see a way forward. Like he’s facing a brick wall, and there’s no way over or under or around. Helpless. Stuck.
Scott slides down the door until he’s crouched into a little ball, his head buried in his arms, and blocks out everything but the darkness. And then he hears a noise that makes him jump, a buzzing, rattling noise coming from down in between his boots. He opens his eyes to see his phone lighting up and vibrating across the tile, and Carter’s name on the screen. He grabs at it and clicks to open the message.
did u run off thru the kitchen n abandon me? we didnt even get our food yet
Before Scott can even click the button to reply, his phone buzzes again with another text.
you ok, baby? need me to come in?
And suddenly Scott feels more embarrassed than anything, and the last thing he wants is for Carter to have to come get him, like he’s a fucking child. He texts back quickly, telling Carter no, he’s fine, he’s coming, and stands up. His back is aching from the weird position, but he’s glad of the dull pain--it focuses him, gets him moving. He stops just for a minute at the row of shining sinks, to run his hands under ice cold water and glance at himself in the mirror, make sure he doesn’t look like he just had a nervous breakdown or something. Then he turns, braces himself like he’s about to walk over hot coals, and goes back out into the noise and bustle of the restaurant.