Author: Anna Martin
Category: LGBT
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/anna-martin/page,3,529683-the_lost_boy.html
He wasn’t allowed to have an opinion that wasn’t edited or censored, not allowed to date or fuck people unless they’d been vetted, denied the impulsive freedom that he didn’t know he’d treasured.
And Stan wanted to let him pick his own therapist.
“Okay,” he said.
Okay.
Chapter Three
When Tone got back, Ben was already in bed. Stan had stayed awake, not wanting to curl up on the sofa until he knew Tone was home safely.
It was stupid to pretend they weren’t vulnerable these days. Tone could blend in on these streets with his Jack-the-lad look much better than Summer or Jez or Ben. Especially Ben. HMV sold posters of the band, alongside Justin Bieber and Ariana Grande and whoever else was popular. Like Ares were admired by teenagers who looked up to them. Wasn’t that a terrifying thought.
Tone stumbled through the door just after one in the morning, not that Stan minded. His body clock was still totally fucked. He appreciated the quiet apartment and the chance to work without interruptions.
“Sorry,” Tone said as he shut the door behind himself, then locked it and put the chain across.
“Nothing to be sorry for.”
Tone ambled into the kitchen and pointedly sniffed. “Did you make toast?”
Stan grinned. “Ben did.”
“Ben ate something?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Good. That’s good.”
“Do you want some toast, Tone?”
“Ooh, yes please.”
Stan laughed under his breath and unfolded himself from the chair, stretching his arms above his head before going to the fridge and slotting four slices of toast into the toaster. Tone ate more than Ben.
“I spoke to him, earlier,” Stan said, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms over his chest.
“Bloody hell. Getting him to talk, getting him to eat… we should have called you sooner.”
Stan shrugged. “I’m not a threat to him.”
That seemed to stop Tone short. He nodded slowly, as if just realising Stan’s words were true.
“Did you have a nice time tonight?” Stan asked.
“Yeah. Went to Buck Shot.”
“They let you in?” Stan teased.
“Hey, I wasn’t the one who got barred.”
“That was Geordie?”
Tone rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Dickhead. Quiet in there tonight, so I could sit at the bar and have a decent conversation with someone.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It was, yeah.”
The toaster popped, and Stan turned away to fix Tone’s late-night snack.
“Are you alright for work and everything?” Tone asked. “You left New York quickly.”
“It’s not too bad,” Stan said. “I’ve rearranged a couple of meetings to do them by video call instead. And my intern is going to go to a few events for me and report back so I can do the write-ups. Everything else can be done from here.”
“How long are we staying here?”
Stan took the plate over to the table, pointedly making Tone eat there instead of standing at the kitchen counter.
“I don’t know, Tone. You all seem to think I’ve got some grand plan. I really don’t.”
“You’re doing better than the rest of us put together. You made more progress with him in a day than we have in months.”
Stan sighed and flicked his hair back behind his shoulder. “Los Angeles wasn’t working, so I told him I thought we could try somewhere else. Sometimes a change of pace, or a change of location… it helps with a change of mindset.”
“That makes sense.”
“I don’t know if it does.”
“I spoke to Summer earlier,” Tone offered. “She’s keeping the boys in line, trying to get them from blowing up. They spent most of the night and half the day going through what we already have for the album. I’ve already laid down all the drums, so that’s done, and they’re further along with keys and guitars than we realised. This might come as a shock to you, young Stan, but we have a tendency to fuck around in a recording studio.”
“I refuse to believe that.”
“It’s true,” Tone said with a wink.
“You have peanut butter in your beard.”
Tone wiped his face with the back of his hand, then licked it clean. “Anyway, the point is, they have a lot of material they can work with over the next couple of weeks, and then we can make a plan to fill the gaps. Ben already wrote all of the lyrics for the tracks we’ve been working on. He just hasn’t recorded any of them yet.”
“You said you can record in London.”
“We can,” Tone said. “If Ben wants to. That’s the big million-pound question right now. If he decides to leave the band, then there’s a whole lot of things we need to do to separate him from what’s already been done. He could argue that he owns those lyrics, and we don’t necessarily want to get into that debate. It could take years for lawyers to figure it out. And do we want to release an album with his influence all over it?”
“I could see why you wouldn’t.”
“Right. If Ben goes, then we either continue on as the four of us, which I think is most likely, or find someone else. Ben writes most of our lyrics, though, so even if we don’t bring in someone else, we need to find a lyricist for this album. Or, we scrap the past six months of work and start again.”
“What a mess,” Stan said.
“Right. We’ve got, what, thirty tracks so far for this album?”
“And you’ll pick your favourites when you’re done recording, is that it?”
Tone nodded. “That’s usually how it works, yeah. Part of the problem in the past few weeks is that the others have been putting Ben under a huge amount of pressure to get his shit together so we can finish the album. The record label set us a deadline, which was last weekend.”
“You missed the deadline already?”
“Yeah. And that’s not good. They’re breathing down our necks, wanting to see progress, and we can’t give it to them because Ben went off the deep end. Summer’s a mess, Jez is pissed off, Geordie washed his hands of the whole thing because he can’t handle Ben when he’s high… which leaves me.”
“You’re his best friend,” Stan said gently. “He listens to you even when he doesn’t listen to anyone else.”
“Yeah, well, he’s not fucking listening to me any more,” Tone muttered. “The only way I could even get him to let me in his room was to offer him a joint. Then we got high and forgot whatever it was they wanted us to talk about.”
Stan couldn’t help it; he laughed. Some things would never change. “Oh, Tone.”
“I know.”
“How are they all now?”
“I think things are better since we made a plan. We can tell Melissa the plan—she’s our manager—and she can relay it back to the label. Musicians are fucking temperamental by nature. They’re not expecting us to be Boy Scouts. We could still get it finished and released by Christmas.”
“But you don’t know what Ben’s doing.”
“No. He’s still the wild card. I want him to stay, I want him to keep recording and touring with us, but it’s killing him, Stan. How can I tell him I want him to stay when staying is killing him?”
“I don’t know,” Stan murmured.
“Me either. I said to Summer earlier—I would prefer for Ben to go than for him to die. I don’t think she’d been looking at it like that up until now.”
“He’s not going to die.” Stan looked Tone in the eye, wanting him to know how much he meant it. “He saved my life once. Maybe now I have to save his.”
Tone tried to insist that Stan take the bedroom, but Stan held firm. He had purposefully bought a nice pull-out sofa that was actually comfortable to sleep on, and besides, Tone was a guest. The flat really wasn’t big enough for them all to be living on top of one another, but it would do, for now.
Despite the comfy sofa, Stan didn’t sleep we
ll. The pressure to “fix” Ben and get him back on track was all on his shoulders now, with an internationally famous, Grammy-winning, platinum-selling band looking to him to get Ben in a position where he could keep going. The thing was, Stan wasn’t sure if convincing Ben to keep going was the right thing. Tone was right: this lifestyle was killing him.
But what could he do after this? Was it possible to go from being in a wildly successful band to… what? Serving pints back at Buck Shot?
Stan sighed and rolled over.
He had his own life to worry about too. He’d built a career in the past few years, a successful one that he loved very much. The thing with fashion was that Stan could bring his work with him, whether that was to Tokyo for six months or Johannesburg for six weeks, reporting while immersing himself in a different culture. Travel wasn’t an essential part of his work, but it forced him to consider other points of view in an industry that tended to inspire singular ways of thinking.
He’d always been drawn to the vibe of London, though; there was no point in denying it. Even now, with everything else going on, Stan was itching to get out into the bustle of it all and find some inspiring independent business making clothes or jewellery or shoes and write features about them. He knew, without a doubt, that he could find that here.
Maybe tomorrow he’d send an email to Parsons. He wasn’t signed on to teach next semester yet. Students would likely be anticipating his lectures, but he hadn’t committed to any. After almost two years of living in New York, it could be time to come back to London.
Chapter Four
Tone disappeared during the days to somewhere he didn’t deign to tell Ben about. Sometimes he was around in the evenings. Other times Ben didn’t see him from when he rolled out of bed in the mornings to when he crawled back in it.
Not that he spent much time out of bed.
With Stan now in charge, rather than the committee of his friends, Ben was allowed his laptop back. That meant he could lie in bed all day and watch Netflix or porn and wank himself silly, and Stan was content to let him.
Stan had gotten the test results back: Ben was clear of any infections. Ben studied his spunk, oddly grateful to know he didn’t have HIV. Then he wiped his hand off on the bed sheet.
Ben knew Stan was working hard on something. Whenever he went to the kitchen, Stan was hunched over his own laptop, typing away or frowning at the screen, or sometimes talking to someone on a video call. Ben didn’t ask him what he was doing. He didn’t care, and it was none of his business anyway.
They had been back in London for five days when Ben’s cabin fever suddenly snapped. Stan had been forcing him to wash every day, so Ben could just pull on clothes from the H&M bag, yanking off the labels as he went, and he was ready to go.
“I’m going out,” he announced over his shoulder as he headed for the door.
As he expected, that caused a reaction.
“Give me five minutes; I’ll be with you,” Stan said, rushing to his feet.
“I just want to take a walk. I’ll be back in an hour.”
“Ben, you know I can’t let you out on your own.”
Ben stared him down, pure loathing throbbing through his body. It made his fingers shake.
“I’m not going to get drugs.”
He was definitely going to get drugs.
“Ben.”
Shit. In the time they’d been arguing, Stan had pulled on shoes and a jacket that were next to the door, ready to go in an emergency. Almost like Stan had planned it. Knowing Stan, he probably had.
“Look, I’ve been stuck here with nothing to do for the past week, and I’m going fucking crazy. I just need to get out and away from you people for five fucking minutes, okay? I can’t stand looking at you anymore.”
Stan blinked. A colour rose on his cheeks, and Ben thought Stan might slap him.
Then Stan slowly reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
“The number for the landline is programmed in,” he said. “Under ‘Camden Flat’. If you need anything, call me.”
Ben thought about refusing him. Then he snatched the phone out of Stan’s hand and stormed out.
For a while he did walk, his hood up and his head down, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he avoided eye contact. That worked here; no one wanted to look at anyone else anyway.
Ben knew there was no need to be rude to Stan. He’d been nothing but nice ever since he’d let himself into Ben’s room in LA. Ben definitely was not sick of looking at his face. Stan had a nice face. He’d missed it.
Despite the meandering route he took to get there, Ben knew exactly where he was going. By the time he arrived, he’d worked up a full head of steaming self-loathing.
Ben had bought the three-bedroom flat on Baker Street for about two million about a year after the first album came out. At the time it seemed like an obscene amount of money. It was an obscene amount of money, especially considering Ben had never really lived there. He’d been told to think of it as an investment property.
After living in some of the most mouldy, grotty accommodation London had to offer, the thought of an investment property whose only purpose was to sit empty and make money made Ben feel even worse. So he didn’t think about it much at all and made no effort to live there.
Marylebone was just on the other side of Regent’s Park, so he could walk through and pretend he was a normal person, like all the nice families that were out, walking their dogs or playing with their kids in the leafy shade. London had warmed up in the past couple of days so he stood out for wearing a hoodie, but still no one looked at him.
Out of everything London had to offer, Ben appreciated the anonymity the most. He wasn’t sure why he’d made such a fuss about not wanting to come back here. London was awesome.
Ben didn’t have a key to the flat. He wasn’t even really sure where the keys were. He did have his identification, though, and the pass code, and the building had a doorman who could let him have the spare key.
Despite being so close to the bustle of Baker Street, inside the building was eerily quiet. Ben glanced at the lift, remembered the mirrors that lined it, and decided to take the staircase. His flat was only on the second floor. His feet didn’t make any noise as he climbed, the carpet on the stairs was that thick. And no one ever used them. Why would they, when there was a perfectly serviceable lift?
Ben unlocked the apartment and didn’t bother to lock it again, just toed off his trainers and kicked them to the side and pulled off his hoodie.
He hadn’t bothered decorating when he’d moved in, so it still looked like a pristine show home. The whole thing was far too classy and modern chic for his liking, all white and cream and grey with the odd colour for “accent.”
Without bothering to look around, Ben headed back to the master bedroom. He’d slept here a few times, when he didn’t want to go back to the house, or if he needed some time away from the rest of the band. After he’d first bought the flat, he’d felt like he should at least stay in it a few times.
When everything kicked off, it was the flop he used to get high.
The bedroom had a huge built-in wardrobe, with no clothes hanging in it at all. Ben thought there might be some clothes in the chest of drawers but didn’t bother to look. He wasn’t here for clothes.
The built-in safe came with the flat, and Ben had programmed the code so no one else knew what it was. He punched in the numbers with trembling fingers, almost sobbing with relief when it beeped and clicked open.
He didn’t have quite as many pills as he’d thought, but there was plenty of coke and Mandy, some Vicodin he’d brought back from the States one time, and a whole fucking box of beautiful, beautiful lorazepam. These were actually prescribed too, his name printed on the side of the box.
Setting up the lines the way he liked them didn’t take long, and as usual, he hated himself more and more with every gram he snorted.
Then he spread himself out on the bed and waited for the nothingne
ss to appear.
A couple of hours later, the phone was ringing almost nonstop, and Ben decided it was irritating enough to do something about. He was going to throw it out the window, like he’d done with plenty of phones before, but then he remembered it was Stan’s and stopped himself. Instead he turned it off, set it on the dressing table, and went back to his safe to find some nice painkillers.
Ben was sure Tone wasn’t real. He’d been dreaming of Tone for a while now, differing variations, some of which were nice, some less nice. Ben wasn’t so fond of the Tone that had tentacles coming out of his face instead of a beard. He’d closed his eyes until that one left.
This Tone was touching him. That was nice. New. Different. Smoothing Ben’s hair back from his face. Talking to him—a lot of them talked, in that warm Bristol burr that Ben associated with home.
He’d only been to Bristol a couple of times, so that was weird.
“Tone is home.”
Tone kept talking, and Ben didn’t listen.
Chapter Five
Stan wasn’t sure if he was supposed to hear from Tone again after he left to go find Ben. He guessed it would probably depend on what sort of state Ben was in, if Tone could drag him back to the flat or if they’d stay in Ben’s place for a while.
When Tone had got back earlier, he’d known almost immediately where Ben would be. Or he’d had strong suspicions, which Stan was willing to go with. Tone knew Ben probably better than anyone else.
There was no way Stan was going to be able to rest, that much was certain. The flat wasn’t particularly messy, but he went around and gathered up everyone’s dirty laundry and threw it in the washing machine, then scrubbed the bathroom.
A few hours after Tone left, the flat’s landline phone rang. Stan scrambled to answer it.