Should Stars Burn Out

by machka

Summary:

"Blessed are those who give without remembering, and take without forgetting." ~ Elizabeth Bibesco

There are nights you forget your own name.

Notes:

Written for the hc_bingo challenge, using the prompt "Loss of Identity."

Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. The events described therein are not intended to represent actual events. No libel or defamation is intended in posting said fictitious work.

In other words, it's not real, because I made it all up.

It's there in almost every picture, now; that sickly half-smile that crawls across your face... They've taken to calling it your 'fan smile,' since it only shows up around them; but with the progress of time, you wonder if you’d even remember how a genuine smile appears.

Each hand shaken draws off a bit more of your energy; each person hailed and well-met, every camera shutter snapped, steals another little piece of your soul.

Life on the road is exhausting you, wearing you down and breaking you; until there are nights you barely remember your own name, much less the name of the town you should shout from the stage. Trapped in an endless cycle of flesh-pressing and sound checks and ear-splitting music, you try forcing ‘casual’ and ‘nonchalant’ from center stage, but there are nights, some dark and twisted nights, that you slip into cocky and arrogant and irritable instead.

The crowds used to energize and motivate you; the rows of eager, smiling faces before the stage once brought you to life, and oh, how you fed off their energy... But on this co-headlining tour, as you scold yet another vaguely hostile audience for fucking sitting through a God-damned rock show, you’re beginning to understand why a young Bruce Springsteen had stopped opening for bigger names, all those years ago. Sure, the exposure is worth it, as far as selling your product...but it's increasingly difficult to determine where your musical product ends, and the Rock Star begins.

And it’s so many of the same people, over and over...or maybe it’s not, and they all just look the same, their faces blended, merging into a Generic Fan archetype, gazing up at you from the front row. You’d think you’d be flattered that so many fans enjoy your music, so many return to see you over and over... Instead, the thought slowly sickens you, making you fear for your future.

What happens, then, when the bloom is off the rose? Who will push forward to take their place?

Would it be the latest batch of ‘newbie’ fans, unsullied by your cynicism? These, who approach you wide-eyed and shaking; so awestruck, so giddy, and God, so tearful, that some nights you just want to grab their shoulders and shake them, screaming, “No, look at me -- really, look! I'm ME, I'm Dave, I’m not just a brand -- I’m just like you, I'm just this extraordinarily lucky, perfectly ordinary guy...”

But one look in their eyes, you know you're not.

It's those nights you're grateful he's here. Grateful he didn't follow in his best friend’s footsteps, grateful he didn’t desert you, grateful that he knows you so well, knows you even when you've forgotten yourself.

“Dave?”

His voice is quiet, his hand soft between your shoulder blades, but so deep are you in thought that you still startle at his touch.

“You’re thinking too hard again,” he murmurs, and the touch becomes a caress, easing the tight muscles along your spine.

“No, I wasn’t.” You tip your head back to squint at him, feeling the faint pulse at your temples intensify as you force your jaw to relax.

“Dave...you were brooding.” He smiles, then, his eyes wide and alight with gentle humor. “I can always tell, y’know? You look like a fuckin’ turtle, all hunched up in your shell...” He rounds and hunches his shoulders to demonstrate, pulling such a ridiculously-earnest scowl onto his face that you have to laugh out loud.

“That’s better...” Dropping the pose, he reaches out with his fingertips, smoothing the frown lines which mar your skin. He studies you a moment, brushing your hair back off your face, before allowing his hand to slide down your throat to your shoulder.

“It’s late, you know...” He tips his head slightly as his hand falls away, and his voice softens to little more than a whisper, barely audible over the hum of the bus tires against the road. Shifting closer, invading your personal space as only he is allowed, he pries your knotted fingers apart, slipping his own in between. “You need to rest,” he insists, and with a soft tug he pulls you to your feet. “...C’mon, Rock Star, let’s get you to bed.”

And his voice is so gentle, so tender, that you’re surprised by the sudden and unexpected sting flooding your eyes. Even more shocking are the words which leave your lips, exhaled in a sobbing breath: “I don’t even know who I am anymore...”

Through a veil of tears, you watch him swallow past the lump in his throat. “...You’re Heartthrob, every fangirl’s dream,” he replies softly, slipping an arm around your waist. “You’re a singer, in this rock band,” he continues, leading you slowly down the bus aisle to your empty bunk. “You’re my boss...” he murmurs, and draws your t-shirt over your head. “You’re my friend,” he whispers, pressing you to the thin mattress with a hand on your chest. “You’re my boyfriend,” he sighs, and his hands slide your sweatpants down, baring your legs to the cool night air. “You are David Cook...” he breathes, and the chill is gone, replaced by his familiar weight and heat as he stretches out, covering your body with his own. “And you...are mine.”

With a soft moan, you surrender to it.

When you’re lost, he will always bring you home.