Swallowed (By The Earth) - Kevin/Joe
Everyone has those days.
You know, the days where they feel like no one is paying them any attention, that nothing they say or do is of any consequence, when something amazing happens and no one seems to even notice. It’s the day you score a winning goal in a soccer game and look out to the bleachers, a proud grin on your face, only to realize that your mom’s not there. Or when you get a standing ovation in a musical, and realize the chairs you reserved for your parents are empty. It’s the time when, embittered, you stop expecting them to come, but you’re still wounded when they don’t show up.
That’s how Joe felt a lot. It didn’t matter to him that he had girls screaming his name, or interviewers wanting to know about his love life. It didn’t matter that he was in a Grammy-nominated band, starred in a TV show, had three number one albums. All that mattered was that when he ran off the stage, beaming because he’d performed so well, and each and every time was crushed when his mother enveloped Nick in a congratulatory hug, that his father shook Kevin’s hand. It was like he was invisible, like the earth swooped up to swallow him whole before anyone could see him, and they didn’t even notice he was missing.
It was middle child syndrome, really. Even though Nick wasn’t technically the youngest, he was always treated like the baby; he got everything he wanted. He was pretty sure that was the one reason they were in a band. If it had been Joe who initially wanted to be a musician, he would probably have been written off, told to go to college, to make something of his life. He should probably have been glad that it was Nick, because it meant he got to live this amazing life he did. And, really, he was. He’d never felt anything near bitterness about how things had turned out. He’d gotten far too lucky to be dragged along into this life, and he was enjoying it far too much to complain.
But, sometimes - sometimes - on those days - he wanted a little recognition. No, he didn’t need someone to tell him he’d done a great job. He had friends for that. He didn’t need someone to reassure him he was talented. He just wanted someone to care that he was proud of something he had done; he just wanted someone to pay attention, to be proud of it too.
This is one of those days. He knows he must look like a toddler, because he’s dragging his guitar after him like it’s a teddy bear or a security blanket, wandering around his house looking for someone to play this song for, to ask an opinion from. He visited his parents already. His mom was making dinner; she always did when they were at home. She said cooking kept her from getting too high and mighty about their lifestyles. His father was still busy at work - the typical workaholic dad, although he claimed it was because he wanted his sons’ dreams to come true, and they all figured that was actually the case.
The conversations with both of them went just as expected.
Mom: “I can’t do it right this minute, Joseph.” (These words are always accompanied by an indulgent little smile, as if she’s just playing along with his whims.)
Joe: “Oh. Okay.” (These words always hold a disappointment that he never manages to keep out of his voice, despite the fact that he’s barely surprised by this anymore.)
Mom (with a sigh): “Is it that important that I hear it right now?”
Joe (with a failed smile and a shake of the head): “No. It’s okay.”
Mom (with no hesitance, despite the fact that these are the kinds of words that are supposed to be spoken with hesitance): “If you’re sure… Let me know what you decide about it?”
His father was even more predictable.
Dad: “I just don’t have the time for it right now. I have to keep my priorities straight here. I’ve got to get this business out of the way. I’m sorry.” (There’s no real apology in his voice. He has no real remorse or regret for not hearing the song anyway.)
Joe (nodding already): “Well, when you get a chance, can you come find me so I can play it for you?” (He already knows he won’t.”
Dad (nodding as well): “I will. As soon as I have the time.” (He says this as if Joe should be very grateful for all the work he does. Joe is not, at least not right now.)
So, now, Joe is walking down the hallway, toward the studio that was built just for Nick (even though they were told it was for all three of them). He can hear tender chords being played on a piano. Accompanying them are soft riffs from a guitar. His brothers are writing music. The fact that Joe wrote his song alone only stings a little. He pushes open the door, smiling weakly at them when they look up at him.
Nick smiles back, tossing his head. “Oh, good. You have your guitar. You can play the rhythm part.” He holds a smudged copy of the music out to him. It’s obvious he’s already memorized it. “I want to hear how it all comes together.”
Joe takes it, stares at it, doesn’t even try to comprehend what the song his brother just handed him sounds like. He lets his arm fall at his side, hoists his guitar up. “Actually, I was wondering if I could play you guys something I just finished?”
“Joe.” Nick looks at him with that very serious expression he gets sometimes, when his brothers aren’t being as grave about the music as he wants them to be. “We’re rehearsing right now. We can work on whatever you’ve started later.”
But, it’s done. Joe bites his tongue, nodding, and moves over to sit beside Kevin, retuning his guitar and setting the music on the stand in front of him. He doesn’t look at his older brother. There’s no point in showing how hurt his feelings are. Nothing ever changes anyway.
Night falls. Dinner passes. Neither of his parents has heard the song. None of his brothers have heard the song. His guitar returns to its stand unsatisfied. Joe almost wants to apologize to it for not playing the song that sounded so good coming out of it. He climbs into his bed and clicks off his lamp, and the room is so silent, so uncomfortable, and he stares through the darkness at a ceiling that seems to not care what he has to offer either.
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Joe doesn’t bother trying again to share it the next day. He’s not bitter. No, even now, he’s not bitter, because he’s got his self-confidence, and he’s never believed that anyone else is allowed to affect that. But, he’s also not naïve. He also knows when it’s a waste of time, and more likely than not, he would get the same answer from his family members today that he got yesterday.
So, today, the guitar stays on the stand. Today, the sheet music (that he wrote out so neatly because the song fills him with such pride that he thought a messy page wouldn’t do it justice) rests carefully in the center of his desk. He tells himself he doesn’t need anyone else to hear it. It’s perfect whether they confirm his talent or not.
Still, he can’t help give Nick just a little bit of the cold shoulder. Nick scoffs, assumes he’s just in one of his many diva moods. What his family hasn’t really figured out is that Joe doesn’t have those. Even he thinks he does, of course, but they don’t really exist. He doesn’t throw tantrums or demands things that he doesn’t really have any claim to. He is sensitive though. His shell is soft and easily-pierced, especially by his brothers.
He makes a snide remark to his mother, when she asks him to straighten up his room, that he can’t do it right this minute, but the passive-aggression goes right over her head, and he’s left more sullen by the satisfaction it doesn’t bring him to say it, especially when she just smiles in response and says, “Well, whenever you get the chance” which reminds him far too much of his father, (because not 24 hours ago he said the same thing to him) and he’s so desperate to not be anything like him right now that he trudges up the stairs to clean his room immediately.
When he can sufficiently see his carpet, he picks up his guitar again, rests it across his lap, stares across the room at the music he left on his desk, chews on his lip, and feels so sick to his stomach that he can’t bring himself to play the notes he knows by heart. He’s not surprised to look up and see Kevin standing in his doorway. He manages a smile. “Hey. Mom get at you about cleaning your room too?”
His brother shakes his head. “I was a step ahead of her. I cleaned it yesterday…” His eyes flick over toward his desk. He nods in that direction. “So I came in here looking for you yesterday and saw that... The song’s really good.”
Joe snorts before he can stop himself. He lowers his head when Kevin turns his gaze on him. “It’s not that good.” He murmurs, blushing, because he really didn’t mean to show anyone how upset he was. “Or… it can’t be, because none of you wanted to hear it.”
Kevin is quiet for a long time. Joe doesn’t look up at him. He picks absently at the strings. He hears his brother sigh, the rustle of paper and clothing, and then the bed dips beside him, and Kevin’s arm curls around him. “Play it for me.”
“No.” Joe’s response is automatic, his voice filled with the kind of heartache that one feels when he realizes his dreams are all lies. His shoulders sag under the weight of the realization that he’ll never aspire to everything he wants, will never meet all of his own expectations, because no one else believes in him. He shakes his head. “I don’t want to play it for you just because you feel sorry for me.”
“Joe, I’ve never ever felt sorry for you.” Kevin chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “I’ve felt jealous of you, and I’ve felt an incredible amount of love for you, but I’ve never thought you needed sympathy.” He flicks his wrist, just enough to make the paper in his hand flutter. “And, this? This isn’t anything needing sympathy either. It does need to be played though. So please play it for me.”
Joe looks up, stares at him, trying to tell if he’s lying, and it’s such a waste of time; Kevin’s never lied to him. He tucks himself up close to his side, and there’s something comfortable about the way he fits in against his side, about how the guitar settles so easily across their laps. “Thank you.” He murmurs, kissing him sweetly. There’s no question about whether or not it’s okay. It just seems to be the only thing that makes sense. How else would he thank the one person who’s made him feel special? Neither of them mentions it when he pulls away.
The guitar remembers the song like it was made to play it. Joe remembers why he was proud of it in the first place.