When I Look at the Stars, I Feel Like Myself

"Oh my gosh, I think I'm dying," I huff, climbing back to the top of the hill I just rolled down, grass stuck to my clothing and hair.

The grass tickles the underside of my bare feet, and the sun beats down on my skin, warming me in the cold environment. This is a good getaway from all the drama that's gone down in the past few days, a nice way to unwind. Tattoos and rolling down hills of grass. Who knew that would be therapeutic?

With heavy breathes, I collapse next to Ross on the grass. He smiles, shakes his head.

"You should roll down the hill," I breathe, placing one hand on my stomach and the other above my head.

I'm pretty sure you're supposed to stand up and raise your arms over your head to regain proper breathing, but that takes way too much energy.

"No, thanks. I prefer sitting here and watching you all act like idiots," Ross says.

"Take a walk on the wild side, Ross. You might enjoy it."

"Exposing my feet to germs is wild enough."

He wiggles his bare feet in the grass for emphasis, giving me a goofy look. I laugh.

"You wild, wild man. Someone should cage you up," I tease.

A mock scared expression covers his face. "Don't tell the authorities."

"Can't have our manager becoming someone's bitch in jail."

Not many people get to see this side of Ross. He can joke around, he can let loose, but he's so serious most of the time that people become afraid of him. He takes his job seriously, that's all. If he didn't, he wouldn't be our manager and we wouldn't be on tour with All Time Low and The Maine. I don't think he cares much if people are afraid of him.

"I wouldn't be someone's bitch. I'd make someone my bitch," Ross says.

"Are you kidding? You’d be like man-bait."

"Maybe I could use my looks to get them to do what I want."

"And now, you're thinking like a girl. Let's hope you never go to prison. You'd be doomed."

Jack comes out of nowhere, tackling Holland to the ground. She laughs but doesn't him push off while he pretends to nibble on her neck... Or I think he's pretending... Either way, Holland seems content with him, a big contrast from the fits she's been pulling about eating.

"I bet Holli-bear looses her virginity the second this tour ends," I say.

Ross snorts and rolls his eyes, "I'm surprised those two haven't done it yet."

"Well, they will be the first of the straight couples to do it. I have no doubt in that. Sex kitten's too innocent to do those kinds of things yet, and she's about to go through cancer treatments. She'll probably be too weak. And Elina," I pause, watching the keyboardist push herself down the hill. "She has some things to work through first. But she'll be able to give herself fully to someone one day."

Ross stays quiet, watching the group run around. His toes caress the grass, his breathing calm. Thinking, that's what he's doing. I can tell. I know him well enough to be able to tell. He sighs and looks at me.

"How are you holding up with all of this?" he asks.

"I'm relieved actually. Everything's in the open, and they can get the help they need. Granted, they have to wait till tour is over for any therapy or doctor visits, but it'll be okay."

"I don't like that Riley has to wait to get chemo."

"I don't like that Holl-bear and Elina have to wait to get therapy. What can we do about that?"

"If Holland would stop fighting me on everything—"

"Wishful thinking. You may as well stop there."

"Well, at least Elina seems to be doing better. The tattoo she got looks nice."

"Aren't you glad I pushed her to get another tattoo?"

"You're a bad influence."

"I was born to be a bad influence," I declare.

His eyes swim with something I can't place. He seems to be debating with himself. Whatever it is, it's probably important.

"Mom called me the other day," he says.

What?

I push myself up, eyebrows drawing together. "Aunt Jill called you?"

"Yeah."

"What did she want?"

"The same thing she wants periodically: for me to come home and forget you exist. It's disgusting, really. She begs, cries, then proceeds to insult you in order to get me to see the 'error' of your ways."

I know the tactic. I've heard it a few times when I first came out and Ross got an apartment and took me in. He would talk to his mother on speaker sometimes, hoping to rouse an apology that I would hear while locked in the bathroom crying.

"Ross, you have to come home," his mother's sobs blare from the speaker.

"Not unless Dalton is welcome," he retorts.

I hold my breath, back pressed to the bathroom door, knees drawn to my chest. My body is shaking, tears streaking down my face. Black and blue splotches are scattered on the skin I can see. The white cast on my arm holds the broken bone in place so it can heal. I can't look in a mirror. What's there isn't pretty, just a mess of bruises, cuts, and swollen skin.

"You know that fag's not welcome in this house," she says, her tone harsh.

"Don't call him that," Ross argues.

"That's what he is. Little cock sucker probably has diseases."

"Mom, that's your nephew."

"Not anymore, and if you don't come home, you're not my son."

"Well, I guess Matthew's an only child now." He hangs up and curses.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

The apology never happened, and it never will happen. I can't expect anything from them without being let down. Aunt Jill does call repeatedly to ask Ross to come home, though. And Ross always turns her down. That, I can expect.

"I'm sorry I brought you into this," I say, "I feel like I caused you more pain than necessary."

"Don't be sorry. You didn't bring me into this. I brought myself into this, and I don't regret it for a second."

"It's just... You could have abandoned me—"

"I couldn't have done that. You looked absolutely pitiful when you came to our door."

Desperate, I knock on Aunt Jill's front door. My legs are shaky despite the short walk. My ribs hurt, my arms hurt, my face hurts, my heart hurts. I can feel a trickle of blood trailing from a cut on my cheek. In the dim light, I can see the bone in my forearm trying to poke through the skin. I clutch my stomach with my other arm, trying to calm my breathing.

I'm not crying, though. I hurt too much to cry.

The door opens, a flurry of light landing on my mess of a form. Ross stands in the doorway, his face twisted in shock.

"Dalton?" His eyes trail over me. "What happened to you?"

"Can I come in?" I ask.

Before he can answer, his mother is in the doorway. Her upper lip rises as if she's smelt something disgusting, her eyes hold no remorse. Hope dies under those eyes. My father called her. I'm going to die on the streets.

"Go to your room, Ross," Aunt Jill says.

"We have to get Dalton to the hospital," Ross says.

"No, we don't."

"Are you serious? Can you not see how badly he's hurt?"

"He's going to hell anyway. May as well let him go."

Ross's face morphs into anger. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Ross Oliver Baker, don't curse at me."

"When you decide to gain a soul, I won't." He grabs his keys from the hook next to the door and storms out. "Get in the car, Dalton. We're going to the hospital."

"I guess."

Smiling, he places a hand on my arm. "Look at where we are, Dalton. On tour with All Time Low and The Maine. I hate to say this, but if you hadn't come out, we wouldn't be here."

"That's true."

Ross would be in college for who knows what, and I would be... I don't what I would be doing... I wouldn't be very happy, I know that.

But he's right. We wouldn't be here, on this hill, if I hadn't come out, regardless of how miserable that went.

"Coming out is a big step in a young person's life," he continues, trying to make me feel better. "It’s the ultimate in self-acceptance."

"You need to stop surfing the net."

"But there are so many good things there."

"Like porn."

"Porn makes the world a happy place," he says, almost serious.

"That sounds like something I would say."

"I think you're where I got that from."

"Are you sure you didn't get that from your online lover?"

He gives me a look, and I struggle not to laugh. Picking on him is fun. It may be a little mean, but I think I've gained the right to pick on him by now. After all, he is my cousin.

"I don't have an online lover."

"Lies. You do dirty things with him every night."

He plays Solitaire at night when he can't sleep. There is no history of dirty online chat rooms on his computer. I don't think he has a screen name. His e-mail is filled with professional mail. There are no online lovers. He's too busy for lovers in general.

Again, I feel this may be a little of my fault. He would be a normal college student going for his Masters, possibly settling down with a pretty girl, but he's here, on tour and watching over You First like we're children.

I would set him up on a date, but I don't know any good women for him.

I could try to manipulate Holland's sister into dating him, but I think he's had enough of dealing with women with eating disorders.

"Okay," he laughs, "Whatever you say."

"Because I'm always right. Deal with it."

He doesn't reprimand me for the comments I make. He hasn't since he started taking care of me. I don't think he would reprimand any of the band members for comments like that either, though they don't know that. But he made it very clear that he wants me to be open with him, that I can't keep things from him.

"Dalton," Ross sighs, gripping my IV injected hand.

I stare at him through puffy black eyes, waiting for him to continue. He waited in the hospital room for me while I was wheeled around to take a series of tests, and he's still here, relieved that I'm in the room.

After what I've been dealing with, his care is comforting. I don't think I could ever repay him for this.

"How are you feeling?" he asks.

I shrug, pain immediately rushing through my body at the action. I don't cringe, don't show any emotion at all.

"Talk to me," he says.

His voice is soothing. It has been since we left his home to come here. He hasn't made demands or yelled at me. In the past twelve hours, he's been the nicest person to me.

But I don't say anything. I stare at him, watching his face fill with sadness. For awhile, the only sound that echoes off the walls of the room is the heart monitor beeping, telling me I'm still living.

I kind of wish it would shut up.

"You have to talk to me," he says finally, "Whatever happened, whatever your dad did to you, you can't keep it locked up inside. It'll eat you apart, Dalton. I can't let that happen to you. Tell me anything. I don't care what it is, just don't keep your thoughts locked up."

I stare at him, listening to the annoying heart monitor. His eyes plead for anything. I run my tongue over my lips and open my mouth.

"That male nurse that took me to get a CAT scan had the most muscular ass I've seen in my life."

A smile stretches across Ross's face. "I bet."

I had a better mental filter before that. I mean, I kept my homosexuality a secret for years. My mental filter had to be a lot better. It just didn't matter once I started staying with Ross. He doesn't care that I'm gay. I make all kinds of comments, and he doesn't do anything to me. He takes care of me, loves me no matter what, supports me financially. Ross is amazing.

It was hard in the beginning, though. Ross dropped out of college to get three jobs so he could take care of both of us. He never asked me to get a job. I don't think he wanted me to at first. But I did without telling him. Some fast food job that took no thought. He didn't find out till I started leaving my checks for him on the counter.

I felt bad about him taking care of everything.

"What are you thinking about?" he asks.

"Life," I respond.

"Pretty good, isn't it?"

"Now, yeah."

He takes a deep breath, crisp air rushing to his lungs. "You're dad will come around."

"It's been two years. He still hasn't come around."

"You know how your dad is. Takes him awhile to get used to things."

That is true. But it doesn't change anything.

"I don't really care. I don't want his apologies. What he did is unforgivable."

Three days. My father hasn't looked at me in three days. He's pretending this doesn't exist, watching football and drinking beer like he always does. The silent treatment is all I've gotten from him. Once the words "I'm gay" left my lips, he turned to the television, no comment on the newfound knowledge.

I wish he would say something.

I sigh, placing my new concoction in the oven. Dad's television blares, threatening to deflate the treat I've worked hard on. Shaking my head, I walk to the living room. He doesn't look at me when I enter.

"Can you turn it down?" I ask. "My soufflé will fall."

He snaps his head to face me, fire blazing in his eyes, angry lines decorating his forehead, mouth twisted in a snarl. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything. Maybe the silent treatment is better.

"Why do you have to be such a goddamn flamer?" he asks.

The comment stabs my heart.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"You heard me, faggot." He stands and walks towards me, back ridged, fists clenched at his side.

I step back and bump into a wall. Trapped. He stops in front of me, so close I can smell his cologne and make out ever furious facial feature. The muscles in the jaws are clenched. His nostrils flare. Frightening, that's what he is. I wish I could take everything back, go back in time and erase the moment I told him, but I know that's not possible.

"I can't change who I am," I mumble.

"I should have fucking drowned you when I had the chance."

And then his fist collides with my face, causing me to stagger, pain surging through my cheek. It’s the first in a series of attacks. Bones crack audibly, pain consumes my mind, the taste of blood fills my mouth. I don't know which way is up and which is down. I fall at some point, a nearly unconscious heap on the floor. And all I'm fully aware of is that I hurt.

By some mercy of God, he stops and his heavy footsteps go into the kitchen. I don't move, don't try to take assessment of my body. I just lay there, hoping he's gotten his anger out of his system.

But I hear him open the knife drawer and grumble curses over the roaring in my ears. Survival instincts kick in, fueling my actions. I push my body up and limp out of the house as fast as I can. Flight is my only option.

"You've grown a lot," Ross comments.

"I know."

"I'm proud of you. I know I haven't said it before, but I am. There are so many ways this situation could have ended, but you didn't let any of them happen."

"I couldn't have done that without you."

"Well, I'll always be here."

He smiles, and I return the gesture. I know he'll always be here. After everything he's been through with me, I don't think he could force himself to leave. We have a connection that can't be broken.

A vibration runs through my pocket. I jump, causing Ross to chuckle and shake his head. Mock-glaring at him, I pull my phone from my skinny jeans and hold it up. "Stephan" stretches across the screen. My heart leaps into me throat. I press the green button and press the phone to my ear.

"Hello, love muffin," I say.

His laugh meets my ear, a beautiful chime that makes my heart beat increase. "Hi, babe."

"I am a babe, aren't I?"

More laughter. He's blushing. I know he is. Everything I say makes him blush. But that's okay. All his endearing comments make my heart soar, so we're even.

"That you are," he says.

I smile wider. "So, what'd you need?"

"I can't call to say 'hi?'"

"You can, but you normally do that at night or in the morning, not before a performance."

He is about to go on, I'm positive. Different time zones and all that.

"You know me too well."

"I try. So... You going to tell me why you called or are you going to keep sidestepping the subject?"

I hear a nervous chuckle this time, and it worries me a little. What is the reason he called?

"I've been thinking," he starts, "We've been talking for awhile, and you're a great guy." He pauses, takes a deep breath. "This is harder than I thought it would be... Um... Do you... Would you... I..." He takes another breath.

I know where this is going.

"I'd be your sex monkey any day," I say.

I hear the relief in his laugh. "So you'll be my boyfriend?" he asks.

"Nothing would make me happier."

Without all of the things I've been through, I don't think I could have ever said that. I guess there's always a positive to a painful situation. This one... this one gave me the ability to express emotions freely, something I wouldn't have been able to do otherwise.

Thanks, dad.