The next day was scheduled practice with the band, and Johnny was just thankful for the chance to spend some time away and in his safe space. Getting up was difficult, and he fumbled around the apartment to scrounge for a coffee filter, his clothes. Everything felt so far out of his reach, and no matter what he did, he couldn't focus. Eventually he managed to get himself and his things in the car and drive out to their drummer's house before Julianna even saw his face.
Van was the first to comment on his appearance. "Pretty shiner ya got there. Rough night?"
"Ah, shut up." Johnny turned away. He didn't feel like saying much. His gut didn't hurt, for once, and for that he was grateful. Only distantly sore and numb.
Lawrence, the drummer, looked him up and down skeptically, no doubt taking in the paleness of his cheeks and the way his red-rimmed eyes had darkened even more underneath, from the fatigue.
"Johnny, maybe you should sit this one out."
"He'll be fine, he just got some head last night," Van drawled, striking an A on his guitar and plucking out a rough tune. He broke into his obnoxiously bad impression of Johnny's stage singing. "I'll look so pretty when I die..."
Cole, the bassist, snorted. "Yeah, that'll get us the record deal."
Their small local circuit had them talking to someone about signing, and opening up for better known bands. They would rehearse like this every Sunday before the places that Friday opened up, with smaller ones during the week. Johnny picked up the lyrics binder that they kept, the other guitarist always insisting he change them every couple of weeks.
Van had quite the ego at times, to the point where he insisted his work get above Johnny's. Not a day passed when he didn't try to one up him by adjusting this or changing that. Cole had been so frustrated lately that he'd outright refused to practice this particular week, and was only coming in today because Van dragged him around. They had all just about had it with the slinging of creative differences. Johnny had begun to stray from his traditional hard rock sound, with his writing turning darker and often introspective. It was something he didn't want anyone picking apart. Even with a deal in the works, Van still hadn't left off tormenting him about his ideas and sound, to the point where he'd even threatened to drop out of the band. Maybe it was for the best, if that was what he wanted.
Flipping open the red notebook, Johnny saw that his last several songs were crammed into the back corner of the pages, new alterations having been made to the ones Van had deemed unworthy. "You cut out my bridge."
"Huh?" Van looked up, uncrossing his legs where he'd sprawled himself out on the dusty garage sofa and propping his guitar over his leg. He'd been pretending to play along with Lawrence's drum rhythm, but clearly wasn't paying attention to anything. "What're you talking about?"
Johnny wanted to hit him. "My bridge. From Edge of the World. You fucking cut out most of it."
"Oh, come on," he rolled his eyes. "It just didn't fit, alright? Doesn't need it."
"Fuck off!" Lawrence was watching, and the way Johnny nearly lost it, almost threw the notebook across the room, had the drummer prepared to jump in to break them up. The two were longtime friends after all, which Van was not so shy to remind Johnny whenever he felt himself losing control of the band he started. "Everything you've done is in here and then some. I spent weeks working on those songs, and you went and fucked up what you didn't like."
"They didn't sound that good," Van protested, leaning over to pull the booklet from Johnny's white-knuckled grip and flipping through the pages, skipping up to his songs. "Alright, fine, they were okay before I added to them."
Johnny snatched the book back and quickly skimmed the pages. More than half of it had been cut down or changed completely. "Alright, see? Edge of the World has a whole section gone."
Van shrugged. "Damn, sorry."
But Johnny's blood was boiling. He was the face of this band, the singer, and so far more visible than his friend who otherwise wrote lyrics to a different genre of music anyway. And he'd been screwed over in a huge way. He swung the booklet at Van's head who immediately caught it and flung it back at his chest. "Don't throw shit at me."
It was sloppy and almost playful, a hard throw but gentle enough that it landed straight into Johnny's chest rather than knocking the wind out of him. But it was too much for him right now, and it nearly pissed him off even worse when Van grinned and motioned to the notebook. "Well, look, if you're gonna be a bitch about it—"
With a yell, Johnny chucked the notebook aside and went straight for the throat. The standoff had the guitar and the notebook tossed to the floor as blows were dealt. Van was clearly winning despite the hits Johnny was landing, had him on the floor and was trying to cover his mouth and slam his head back into the concrete. Lawrence sprang up from behind his drum kit to break up the fight while Cole looked on, taking a heavy drag from his cigarette. He didn't really care; half the time, he himself wanted to punch Van too, if not all the way knock his block off. The fights always made him nervous, though.
"Shit, Johnny, man, lay the fuck off." Van had him subdued but the anger hadn't gone out of him yet as he sputtered around the hand Van held against his face. He was squirming and his free hand jerked weakly as he tried to land hits in the right places, but the drummer just dragged Van off his friend and gave him a hard shove in the shoulder. "Quit it, Van."
"He just wigged out on me for cutting his stupid lyrics. Hey, I said I was fuckin' sorry, alright?" He'd picked up the notebook again and shoved it into his friend's chest. "What do you want me to do?"
Even hours later, Johnny didn't know how to convey what he wanted, unless it was that the cut lyrics be returned and the song be restored the way he had written it. He liked it the way it was, thank you very much, and wanted the band he'd started to sound the way he'd envisioned it the first day they'd begun making music together. But he couldn't say a word and shook his head, feeling as if he couldn't properly make the request when he was having a difficult time even with the little bits his brain could piece together. So, he held it instead, and was silent on the topic for the remainder of practice.
The other guys went back inside after the disagreement passed, but Johnny told them he'd be in in a minute, laying back on the beat-up sofa and staring up at the sky visible through the garage door's window. He'd felt physically sick but wasn't sure why, anymore.
"Johnny?"
He opened his eyes to see Cole leaning over him, silhouetted by the bare bulb hanging from the garage's ceiling. "Yeah?"
The kid didn't reply, but eased himself onto the couch carefully beside his friend. He seemed troubled, but wasn't saying anything to start conversation. Just twiddling his thumbs, picking at a hole in his jeans, watching the clouds pass. It took a few moments, but he slowly leaned over until his head was resting on Johnny's shoulder.
The touch startled him, but he didn't move away. "What are you doing?"
Cole was silent again, fingers trailing across his denim-clad knee as his thumb flicked away from his other hand. A nervous habit. "I'm sorry about Van. The things he does."
Johnny thought back with a certain amount of guilt to when Van brought Cole on to join the band, looking over the quiet young man at his side who seemed like he needed something desperately. Closeness. Acceptance. To be validated, maybe. The three were certainly a complicated unit.
Suddenly, the small movements of Cole's fingertips were clear. He was tracing around Johnny's hand where it had grabbed his own knee, then threaded his own fingers through Johnny's clumsily, his movements shoddy and awkward. Johnny was quiet a moment before finally finding words.
"Cole?"
"What," the bassist mumbled against the other man's worn shirt. His hands tugged uselessly at Johnny's tensed fingers.
Johnny turned his head. A shock prickled down the back of his neck when he realized his friend was drunk. He stank of cheap whiskey. Why had no one seen this earlier? Usually Van would keep him under control, prevent him from drinking if it was that bad of a day, but obviously the guitarist had dropped the ball.
Not the first time, he thought, recalling the last show several months ago where Cole was obviously tripping his face off. A couple times. Each time could have ended badly, his mind told him, remembering how they'd had to rewrite their setlist on the spot to avoid playing this one particularly emotional song that the kid had said he'd been unable to even look at. Cole still looked bad; his color was pale and his hair messy and unkempt, with pronounced dark circles and a haggard posture. His hands were trembling, almost, and he avoided making eye contact.
"Cole." His friend stopped fumbling with his hand for a second when he said his name a second time. "Did you drink today?"
He stared into the driveway, at the tarp covering Van's car. "Um." His eyes slid back and forth like a machine considering possible replies, and even his own response had him frowning and doubting himself. "N...hmm. No."
There was a pause.
"Okay. Do you want a smoke?"
The hand holding his tightened in emphasis before sliding up his arm. It felt the crease of his elbow as it traveled. "Maybe."