"No, I won't do it again 
I don't want to pretend 
If it can't be like before, 
I've got to let it end" 
 

The Cure "Maybe Someday"

It's over.  You're not even trying to hide it in interviews anymore. Your cynicism and contempt for the performance side of the music industry was bleedingly apparent in every word of the glossy, overproduced interview. 

A glossy overproduced interview in a shallow, surface magazine-program feature in which I merited only a few moments of air time. 

Daniel, Daniel, Daniel.  You know how to play them don't you?  Disappear from sight for months, avoid press like the plague and suddenly every frame of your interview footage is precious, gold.  And I'm old news.  An afterthought. 

You said once that you didn't understand how I could love it so much.  The loss of privacy, the falseness, the lights, the costumes, the makeup.  You'll never understand.  I don't love it, I need it.  The attention, the reassurances, the special treatment, the distant screams of faceless thousands - my life blood.  My soul.  The structured creation that is my public image.  The magazine spreads, the profiles, the pictures.  It isn't a marketing ploy, it's me in there.  I don't know who I am without it. 

You'll never understand because you never let them get that close to you.  You never let yourself become the image on the magazine cover.  You never let yourself need those screams.  At first I thought it was because you couldn't handle it.  You were too weak, too shy.  But you were just being smart.  Fame is a drug.  If you don't take it, there's no threat that it can be taken away from you.  I guess I'm the weak one.  The addict. 

You would never dye your hair blonde just to see how much of a stir you could cause.  In fact you've barely changed the way you look from day one of Red Edge.  You're still the same person.  A little older, a little wiser, but still you.  While I, king of haircuts and public gigolo, swing from boy-next-door, to vamp, dark and brooding divorcee to diva to sex kitten.  Changing my flavour from month to month to keep them interested. It's never me.  But I always believe it is. 

You would never post messages on our own fan board just to see the overwhelming mass reply of inane comments.  You don't need the buzz that comes from the hundreds of mis-typed replies of underaged net junkies to make you feel wanted. Important.  You're secure enough in your own talent - your gift of music as you told the Daddo - not to need such shallow reassurances.  I do.  

I wish I had the same faith in my own talents that you evidently have in yours.  You trust in your own abilities.  You've set yourself up quite nicely - free to go and "experiment" with writing, playing, producing, whatever your heart desires.  Take your pick.  The music world is your oyster.  Leave me to flounder, wondering if I'll still have a career without you. 

I know now why you gave me so much creative freedom with Affirmation.  It wasn't because you trusted my musical abilities, or my input was so invaluable it couldn't be constrained.  You simply didn't care.  You had your side projects to occupy you, your future to plan.  You were just biding your time with me and Savage Garden, planning your escape from the endless crowds of teens, backing bands and rhythm guitar. 

I don't blame you for wanting to get out.  It's no secret that you're not happy.  And you deserve to be happy.  I'm just being selfish, because I know that without your artistic genius I'm doomed to a bland solo career of "oh that's the guy who used to be in Savage Garden".  Without your spark I'll be just another pop singer.  While you will probably become the next Walter Afanasieff, a force to be dealt with, overseeing the careers of those younger, prettier and more talented than me. 

I miss you already, Jonesy.  I miss how we used to be.  Just you and me, a shared house and a dream.  Before the musical World of Sleaze disillusioned you and corrupted me. 

I don't know if you've noticed how I've been throwing myself into these last gigs.  Our last tour.  Wringing every moment out for maximum joy and glory before it all ends.  And we both know it will.  Until now it's been unspoken, but don't think I can't read you like a magazine article when you use the term "experimenting separately."  I'm not stupid. I know it'll only take one taste of complete creative freedom for you crave, indeed demand it.  You're not coming back to me, to Savage Garden.  I know that now. 

My vision blurs a little as I stare at my reflection in the darkened glass of the television screen.  I give myself a little shake and carefully dab at my eyes with the sleeve of my shirt.  I hope my eyes aren't too red, I'd hate for the make-up artist to notice.  And besides,  I want to look good tonight.  It's our last show. 

It's billed as the last show of the Affirmation tour.  In my heart I know it's the last show of Savage Garden.  I throw myself into it, feeling the crowds screams vibrate through my body, pouring every ounce of emotion I have into each song, dancing, strutting and cavorting with abandon through our set and encores.  As always, you are distant, not uttering a word to the crowd and paying little attention to me.  On the surface you smile, you bop and groove, but if I study you too closely I can almost see the boredom in your eyes.   

I wonder what you are thinking about as you strum through the chorus of To The Moon And Back.  Planning your new projects, perhaps, pondering over which lucky new band or artist will be the first to recieve the gift of your talent and influence.  I am starting to sour my mood, so I immediately force myself to stop thinking about it.  But despite the overwhelming response of the crowd, the surge of joy and validation I'm getting from the packed entertainment centre is tainted with my knowledge of your dissatisfaction. 

My palm is wet with sweat that is as much from nerves as it is from exertion as I take your hand in mine for our final bow.  When my eyeline dips to the floor I feel shameful tears well in my eyes.  I hope you don't notice them.  But then how can you see them, when you don't even look at me?  The thought brings little comfort. 

The crowd noise drops to a muffled roar as we trek through the backstage corridors.  Hugs all round from the backing band and vocalists, prompting us to share an obligatory embrace.  I want to melt into your body, but I'm afraid to, so instead I am stiff in your arms and my smile when we part is forced.  I hope you don't notice.  I am still so high from the performance and I have to be careful not to get emotional. I can't let you see how much I'm hurting. 

Ben, Lee, Karl, the girls and the entourage disperse to their dressing rooms, plans for a last-gig blowout simmering between them.  I turn to head for my trailer and blessed solace when I feel your hand on my arm, restraining me.  I turn to face you, confusion all over my face. 

"Last concert, Daz." You say, and I wonder if you realize the significance of your words.  You throw me that crooked grin of yours, the real smile, the one the photographers rarely see. "How about a real hug?" 

I wish there was a way I could politely decline.  For my own sake, I need to get as far away from you as possible and soon.  I am close to breaking and I don't want you to see it.  But if I deny you at this moment, nothing I could say would excuse it. 

My smile of assent is wan, but you accept it, stepping closer and folding your arms around me.  This time I let myself fall into you, feeling the full press of your body, wrapping my arms around you so tight my elbows shift with every breath you take. 

You hold me for a brief quiet moment, and then I feel you speak before I hear you. 

"We did it, Daz.  God, we've come so far... around the world and back again."  Your words are soft and gruff, and I can hear the joy in them. "There's great things ahead mate... great things."  And with those words I know where the joy is coming from.  Not a sense of achievement from a completed tour, but the promise of things to come.  Great things: new projects, indeed a new life for you.  Without me. 

It's too much.  Your arms around me, holding me as you exalt your escape from all that ties us together.  The tears come before I am ready for them.  It's already too late to stop them so I concentrate on keeping them silent, succeeding that far, but the slight racking of my body with each sob soon gives me away.   

"Daz?"  You softly query, and I hear your confusion at feeling my tears. 

You pull back and stare at me, no doubt wondering why I am bawling at a moment when I should be buzzing with triumph and happiness at the completion of a successful tour. 

"What's wrong?"  You ask gently. 

"It's nothing."  I say, trying to sound off hand, starting to pull away from your arms.  You don't let me go. 

"I don't believe you." 

I knew you wouldn't.  Damn you, Jonesy, why can't you just be like everyone else in this industry and not give a damn about anyone else but yourself? It makes it all the worse to be losing you. 

"Oh you know me. I always get emotional after shows. And it being the last show of-"  To my absolute horror and dismay I crumble, unable to finish the sentence as I am arrested by a racking sob.  I fight for composure, biting my lip and trying to school my face into a calm expression as I choke back betraying tears. 

"I'll be ok."  I manage to squeak out.  I take a hesitant step backwards then turn to flee.  Again, you refuse to let me go.  Dammit just leave me alone, I don't want you - of all people - to see me like this.  It's your hand on my shoulder this time that restrains me.  I try to shrug it off, but you just grab the other shoulder, pulling back and physically turning my body around. 

I can see the concern in your expression.  Your sharp, active mind ticking over, weighing up the possibilities, trying to figure it out. Figure *me* out. 

"Tell me."  You order softly, your gaze levelling mine. 

"It's nothing." I whisper desperately, although I know how unconvincing I must look with these tears flowing down my cheeks.  My eyes plead despairingly with you to let it be, let me go, leave me to my misery.  You don't. 

"Don't be daft, Daz. I'm not blind.  Something's obviously getting to you. Something you're not telling me."  You speak with gentle authority, reaching up to deftly wipe at my cheeks with your long talented fingers.  The unconsciously affectionate action just about undoes me and I fight a terribly unmanly display of quivering lips.  Your expression grows more grave and you take me by the shoulders, guiding me into the relative privacy of my dressing room. 

You close the door and lock it, then step into my personal space and pull my body against yours, one arm sliding around my waist, the other drifting up to stroke my hair, still slightly damp from the sweat of performing. 

"It's ok, Dazza. Just let it out. If you need to cry, just cry."  You soothe into my ear, a gentle whisper and goddamn you Jonesy it's my undoing. I don't just cry, I bawl like a baby, sobbing into your chest with abandon, my jagged breaths loud in the room.  You hold me and coo in my ear delicately, like I'm something incredibly fragile.  Like I'm someone infinitely precious to you.  And that just makes me cry harder. 

Eventually I run out of tears, my breathing becomes regular and embarrassment starts to outweigh despair.  I take a deep breath and step out of your warmth.  You look me over assessingly, as if deciding whether I'm ready to be released.  You run a hand affectionately over my wilting hair, then settle me onto a chair and press a wad of tissues into my hand. 

There is silence for a while as I wipe my face down and compose myself, a sense of foreboding settling on my consciousness as I realise this monumental release of tension will come at a price.  The price becomes clear in moments. 

"You ok now?"  You venture gently.  You are being so gentle with me tonight, I fear I am becoming unglued. 

I nod. 

"You ready to talk about it?" 

I shake my head. 

I see the frustration in your features at my rebuff.  

"Daz, please.  I want to help. I can't stand that you're hurting like this." 

I can't stand you seeing me hurting like this.  I hate that you have to witness me at my weakest. 

"Is something wrong at home, your family-?" 

I shake my head. 

"Is it the press, are they fucking you around?" 

I shake my head again. 

"Is it... is it something to do with me?" 

I don't move.  I barely breathe. 

I'm looking down so I can't see your expression.  But I hear your sharp intake of breath. 

"It's this 'experimenting separately' thing isn't it?  Daz you know it's just for a while, and not at the expense of Savage Garden. We discussed this.  I thought you wanted it too." 

God I hate that reassuring tone of voice.  You sound like you're talking to a child. A weak, needy child. 

"Daz talk to me.  Please, I can't stand it."  I force my eyes up at your urging and what I see twists my heart even more.  The look of agonized concern on your face. The pain.  It floors me that you're hurting too, that I could hurt you with my pain.  Funny but your pain stirs a dim glimmer of hope in me. Not hope that you'll change your mind for my sake. Not hope for our musical partnership or my career.  Hope for my heart. 

You see, it gets worse Daniel.  I'm not just dependent on your musical talent, your skill with equipment, your steady stabilizing presence in my life. 

It gets much worse, Daniel.  I'm also in love with you. 

I'm not sure when it happened.  I'm not even sure there is one particular moment I could pinpoint when I fell in love with you, I just know that over time I came to accept that I what I felt for you was beyond friendship, beyond affection, beyond any kind of love I'd felt before. I also came to accept that this love was and always will be 
unrequited. 

So I've become a master of acting. Acting casual when you touch me with friendly intentions. Acting unaffected when I see you with your model-esque women. Acting like I'm not in love with you.  Putting on a performance for a one man audience, just the way I am right now. 

"It's ok, I'll get over it.  I'm just having some trouble letting go." Finally I find my voice. I'm rationalising, I know, I just hope you're buying it. 

"Letting go of what? Nothing's ending, we're just taking a break."  You're trying to sound reassuring, but it's all fiction.  I can't live in this fool's paradise any longer.  "This isn't-" 

"Don't." I speak quickly, one hand raised flat, as if I can ward off your words physically. "Don't, Dan.  Don't lie to me." 

I look up at you miserably, my cheeks stiff with dried tears.  The expression on your face looks as if I've slapped you.  

"I know you're just trying to help, Dan, but believe me, the sooner I deal with this the better it'll be for both of us."  I am trying to sound confident, rational, but I don't think it's working.  The shake in my voice betrays me. 

You regard me with apprehension, hesitantly lowering yourself onto a seat opposite me. 

"Deal with what, exactly?"  You ask carefully, your expression schooled to neutral. 

I take a breath, praying for strength I don't have.  Still, somehow I manage to keep my voice strong and level when I say it. 

"The end of Savage Garden." 

Your expression remains forcibly blank.  It's your lack of visible reaction that confirms my suspicions.  I'm right.  I take little comfort in the knowledge. I see you take a moment to affix your mask of innocence before you to respond. 

"That isn't-" 

"Don't!"  The volume of my voice even startles me.  The shadow of a bruised puppy expression crosses your face, making me hesitate slightly before I plunge onward. "What did I say before?  Truth or silence."  I am surprised at the strength of my voice, somehow managing to retain some authority despite the fact that I am on the brink of tears, *again*. 

"Is that what you think this is?" 

"That's what I know this is." 

"Christ Darren, you're worse than the fans.  It's a break.  We need it." 

"You're not coming back." 

You stare at me so long I start to wonder if you even see me anymore.  If you've drifted off inside yourself so far you've forgotten you're still looking at me, that expression of disbelief etched in stone on your face. 

"You really believe that."  The stone expression shatters as you finally speak, the words directed more at yourself than me.  I don't know why you're so surprised I figured it out. Your gift never lay in acting, that's my domain. You couldn't hide this from me forever. 

"It's the truth, isn't it?"  I don't wait for your answer. I know the answer.  "All this talk of coming back and writing a new album - it's bullshit.  You hate all this performance crap.  You haven't enjoyed being a part of Savage Garden in a long time.  And when you're out there in a purely creative arena - doing what you love without all this press and peripheral bullshit attached - there's nothing that could possibly tempt you to come back to *this*." 

You are silent for a long, long time.  I take your silence as an admission of guilt and I'm on the verge of getting up and leaving when you finally speak again. 

"There's you." Your gaze doesn't shift as you watch me, deathly still. "I'd come back for you." 
 

I think my heart has stopped.  My chest is suddenly tight and it's difficult to breathe.  My first thoughts are wildly erratic and unbalanced.  The way you just said that it felt like... like... 

//Like a moment from an epic period drama where the hero leaves for war, pressing a significant item into the hand of his lady love, promising he'll return from the bloodied battle to marry her. // 

I shake the stupid thought aside, concentrating on slowing my heartbeat before I pass out.  I have to be sensible about this. 

"I can't let you do that." 

"Why not? We've only been doing it for five years." 

Goddamn it Jonesy, stop making this so hard for me.  I want to tell you 'yes' come back for me, let's be together again, writing, performing, making each other complete.  Instead I say, 

"No. It wouldn't be right. You don't enjoy it anymore."  My voice low and flat. 

"Who says?"  Oh you are trying.  The offhand tone, the carefully affected incredulity.  But I see behind the facade. 

"I do.  I know you too well Jonesy. You can't pretend you're still loving this, and that's ok.  No one expects you to.  Especially not me." 

You don't respond, just kinda sigh a little, a look of guilt on your still made-up face and I know I'm right.  I feel a little part of me die.  I didn't want to be right this time.  I speak up to fill the silence. 

"It's just something I have to deal with. And I will. I just need time."  

Using those words it feels like the end of a romantic affair. And I'm the one being dumped.  God help me, if you say "it's not you, it's me" I'll kill you. 

You don't. You give me a sad smile. Your lip is trembling a little and are those tears welling in your eyes? 

"Oh, not you too..." I say, getting teary again now just because you are.  I laugh a little, softly, stupidly, the way you do when you're crying and suddenly everything's funny.  How we must look right now... both of us in tears and snickering softly in my dressing room, still in full costume and all. 

You wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand and stand up, pulling me to my feet and into a tight hug. 

"I'm gonna miss you, Daze."  Your voice is gruff in my ear. 

"I'll miss you too."  I whisper into your chest, holding you tighter.  Funny, but I'm not as devastated as I thought I'd be.  I still hate losing you, but I'm not bitter anymore. I want you to be happy.  If that means letting you go, well... 

I'll try. 

"Oh god, look at us, you'd think someone died."  You mutter, drawing back and finally releasing me from your tight embrace.  I'm loathe to lose your warmth but for the sake of propriety I step back also.  In a way I feel like someone's died. Or at least some*thing* 

I trace shaking fingertips over your cheek, brushing aside your tears the way you did mine only moments ago.  The little smile that flickers over your features twists my heart. How can we be a breath apart and yet so very far away? 

"So I guess this is goodbye then." 

"I guess." 

"Promise you wont forget about me?" 

"I could never forget you, Daze."  I'm looking for the satire, the twist in your words, but I can't find it. You aren't humouring me this time, you are so sincere it hurts. "Never." You re-itorate, your hand brushing my cheek as it drops to your side. 

My heart swells.  It's moments like these I remember all the reasons I'm in love with you. You're so close I can smell the remnants of your cologne, the scent almost entirely extinguished by the sharp musk of your own sweat.  Oh, if I could bottle your scent Jonesy, it'd be better that CK1.  My hands are still on your shoulders, fingers touching bare skin at the base of your neck.  It'd be so easy kiss you. You're practically in my arms, your face centimeters from mine and we've just had one of the most intimate moments of our friendship. 

It'd be so easy. 

I can count on one hand the number of times I've kissed you.  A brief brush on the cheek when we first got signed.  A playful smack right on the lips the first time we hit number one.  The quickest, lightest brush on your forehead one night as I held you when the tour was getting too much and you were coming apart at the seams a little.  There could have been a fourth, but I might have dreamed it. 

If there was a time to up that count, it'd be now.  My fingers at your neck feather upwards, into the short crisp hairs at the back of your head. All I have to do is increase the pressure to bring your mouth to mine. 
  
Do I dare?  Or do I let the moment pass? 

I wage an internal battle, part of me scared as hell and wanting to let go, another part telling me if I don't do it now I wont get another opportunity.  What have I got to lose? I'm losing you anyway. I don't want to regret missing this chance. 

I stiffen my fingers, sucking in a breath and praying for strength. Then I increase the pressure at the back of your head. I sidle closer to you until I can feel the heat of your body but no actual contact.  

Then I look up at you. Your face has an expression of slight confusion, but your smile is still firmly in place. You think I want another hug and you lean in to accomodate.  You start to put your head on my shoulder but I don't let you, my hand at your neck firmly keeping your head upright as I lean my face close to yours.  

We are a breath apart and I know the exact moment you realise my intentions.  You pull away. The lightest brush of my lips across yours is all I feel before you wrench your head back with suddeness I'm not prepared for. I almost stumble, you move so fast. 

With something like desperation, I try again, but instead of being compliant you lean back further, head flinching backward as if avoiding a blow. 

"Darren, what are you doing?" Your voice is slightly raised and peaked with surprise, confusion and another emotion I am loathe to identify. Disgust. 

It's not supposed to happen this way. You're supposed to fall into my arms and confess your love, or at least kiss back, the way you do in my dreams and those online stories I pretend not to read. You're not supposed to stand there eyeing me with suspicion and fear. You're not supposed to be disgusted. 

At that moment I realise the full impact of what I've just done.  I failed. I ruined everything. Now I'm going to lose you as a friend, as well as a business partner. No visits, no phone calls, no emails, nothing. You might as well be dead. 

I once cockily said I don't regret. God, I was stupid. 

"I'm sorry." I admit shakily, taking hesitant steps backward, toward the relative safety of the door.  I try to find an excuse to give you, but there isn't one. I just want to get out of here before the tears that are threatening me again spill over. 

You just stand there, blinking, the shocked look still etched on your face. And I know that you had no idea.  All the times you held me a little longer than you needed to, the times on stage when I'd be flirting and you'd flirt back, the little moments when I'd catch you looking at me, the easily misread statements you'd make in interviews from time to time - they meant nothing. I was projecting a meaning onto them. Seeing what I wanted to see. You had no clue I wanted you. 

You never wanted me. 

I know the expression on your face will haunt me forever.  I head for the door, half hoping you'll call me back again, half hoping I'll never have to see you again. 

This time you don't grab my arm or call me back.  

This time, you let me go.