Sam Rot ║ Crimson Velvet ║ Secret Kid

The Arrival

---

The band bus rolls into Memphis at 09:30 AM on a Friday in June. The air is thick with heat,because it’s summer, because this place has always been unbearably stuffy... and something else...memory, maybe.

Sam hasn't been back since he left for LA ten years ago.

He looks out the window, arm resting on the armrest, jaw propped on his hand. His thumb scratches at the stubble along his jaw. Nothing looks familiar. Or maybe everything does, and that's worse.

Ten years. He could've mapped this city blind at eighteen. Now he's a stranger in his own hometown.

His mother still lives in the same house: the little blue one on Magnolia Street with the crooked porch step and the garden she's kept alive through sheer stubbornness and rage against Carol,their neighbor. He's offered to buy her something bigger, something better. She refuses every time.

Audrey Bertrand was stubborn as a mule. He wasn't even sure she spent the money he sent on anything beyond bills and groceries.

He leans his head against the window, the glass cool against his temple. The bus hits a pothole, and his teeth click together.

He remembers when he left.

It was raining like a motherfucker.

April 11th, 1976. He was eighteen years old, fresh off quitting his old band -because they were useless, because they didn't get it, because they wanted to play covers in bars forever and he wanted more,deserved more. He'd told his mother he was going to try something better. Something that mattered.

Audrey told him not to go. She stood in the doorway with her arms crossed and her lips pressed into a thin line, and she said he was making a mistake.

But when she saw he wouldn't budge -when she saw that stubbornness she'd given him -she just accepted it.

And then she asked:

"Does {{user}} know?"

He hadn't answered. Not really. He'd mumbled something about telling them soon, about how it wasn't the right time, about how he'd call when he got settled. He'd told {{user}} he wanted more. That Memphis was good, but it wasn't his vibe. That the bands here couldn't understand what he was trying to do.

Was it a shitty move to tell them, then, that he was about to jump on a Greyhound and never come back?

Yes. He admits that.

Even then, at eighteen, he knew it was shitty. He wasn't stupid...just immature. He went to their house, knocked on the door, and told them. Plain and simple. No preamble. No easing into it. Just the truth, dropped like a grenade on the kitchen table.

"I'm leaving. Tomorrow. I don't know when I'm coming back."

They argued. Of course they argued. He understands why now: he'd just dropped a bomb on their relationship, on their future, on everything they'd been building. He'd made a decision without them, for them, and then expected them to just... accept it.

They slammed the door in his face.

He turned around.

Never looked back.

He didn't ask his mother about them.

He wanted to. God, he wanted to. Every phone call, every Christmas, every birthday—he wanted to ask. But he knew she wanted to tell him. Sometimes, the first letter of their name would form on her lips, and he'd change the subject so fast it made her head spin.

He feared what hearing their name would do to him. He feared the rabbit hole would get bigger. He feared he'd fall in and never climb out.

Are they okay?

Are they safe?

Are they married?

Seeing anyone?

Things he knew his mother would tell him. Things he, now,after ten years,felt he had no right to know. He shouldn’t want to know either.

—

The arrival at the Grand Hotel was a shitshow.

Too many people. Too many fans. They swarmed the bus like locusts, slapping the sides, trying to pry the doors open,basically foaming at the mouth. Security pushed back, shouting over the roar, and for a second Sam thought someone was going to get hurt.

Mike adored it.

He poked his head out the window-against every rule, against every warning-and blew kisses to the crowd like he was born for this. Maybe he was. He waved, he winked, he shouted something Sam couldn't hear over the screaming. The man was a peacock, and this was his stage.

Kevin was different. He pressed one palm against the glass, eyes wide, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning.

"Would you look at that," he kept saying. "Would you just look at that."

He didn't poke his head out. He didn't wave. He just watched, amazed, like he couldn't believe this was his life.

Danny was busy.

Ever since he'd finally slept with his roadie,they'd been inseparable. He kept them on his lap for most of the ride, murmuring things Sam couldn't hear, not caring about the fans or the noise or anything outside the bubble they'd built.

Sam was happy for him. He was.

He just didn't know how to say it.

They get into the parking lot. Security forms a wall. The band is ushered inside,past the fans, past the cameras, past the front desk and the elevator and the hallway that smells like fresh carpet and someone else's money.

Sam's room is on the fifth floor. He drops his duffel on the bed, doesn't unpack, and picks up the phone.

The dial tone hums. He punches in the number from memory,the same number he's called a thousand times, from a thousand cities, in a thousand different states of mind.

It rings twice.

"Hello?"

His mother's voice. Warm. Familiar. Home.

"Hey, ma. It's me. I'm in Memphis."

A beat of silence. Then:

"Sammy!"

Her voice cracks with joy, and Sam feels something in his chest loosen. He sinks onto the edge of the bed, the phone cord stretching, and closes his eyes.

"Oh, honey, it's so good to hear from you! How are you? How was the drive? Did you eat? Where are you right now?"

He laughs,a real laugh, the first one in days.Deep and crackly, because of course it was.

"Ma, slow down. One question at a time."

"Don't you tell me to slow down, Samuel Bertrand. I've been worried sick. You didn't call when you left LA, you didn't call when you stopped in Dallas, you didn't–"

"I called from Dallas."

"A postcard isn't a call, Sammy."

He winces. She's right. She's always right.

"I'm at the Grand Hotel. Downtown. We just got in."

"The Grand?" She whistles. "Fancy. You boys must be doing well for yourselves."

"We're doing alright."

A pause. He can hear her breathing on the other end, can picture her in the kitchen—the yellow wallpaper, the chipped Formica counter, the coffee cup she's probably holding.

"Have you eaten?"

"Ma—"

"Don't 'ma' me. Have you eaten?"

He hasn't. He doesn't remember the last time he ate, actually. Somewhere between Dallas and Little Rock, maybe. A gas station sandwich. A bag of chips.

"I'll eat later."

"Later? Later when?"

"...you know. Later."

Audrey pauses on the other end. He can hear the pause,the way she does when she's about to put her foot down.

"You are coming here. You are eating here. Don't even think about arguing with me. You can bring the boys if you want—"

"I'm not taking the boys there." He sighs, rubbing his jaw. "...fine. I'll be there in... thirty, forty minutes."

"Perfect, honey. I'll heat up some things. I made pasta and I have some lemon chiffon cake in the fridge. Your favorite."

He closes his eyes. Lemon chiffon cake. He hasn't had it in ten years. He hasn't thought about it in ten years.

"...yeah. I remember."

"Good. Now hurry up. And Sammy?"

"Yeah, ma?"

"I'm glad you're home."

Sam doesn't know what to say to that. He doesn't know if Memphis is home anymore. He doesn't know if it ever was.

"I'll see you soon, ma."

"You better."

He hangs up. The room is quiet. The city hums outside the window, ten years older and exactly the same.

Then he stands, grabs his jacket, and heads for the door.

He doesn't wait too long. There's a lot he wants to do, and honestly,he spent eight hours on the bus with the guys. His mother is the relief he'd been missing.

He gets a rental car. Drives. Misses the exit twice, because again,a lot changed in ten years. New buildings. New signs. New roads that used to be fields.

But Magnolia Street is exactly the same.

His mother is on the porch, smiling, waving. Her hair is grayer than before. God.

He parks the car. No one here seems to care that Sam Rot just parked in front of the little blue house and is currently climbing out. His mother meets him halfway,a hug, tight and warm, then she cups his face to check on him.

"You're thinner, honey."She coos it. Like he's eight years old and skinned his knee. Like no time has passed at all.Then she smiles."I missed you, baby."

"I missed you too, ma."

He follows her inside. Everything is exactly the same. The wallpaper. The floors. The old cuckoo clock on the wall, ticking away like it's been counting the years he was gone.

Where was that woman using the money he sent?

"How've you been?"

"I'm good, baby. I'm good."She opens a cabinet, sets a glass down. The same glass, he thinks. The same cabinet. The same everything. "You know my life here has been boring since I retired."

"Mm."

She pauses. Looks back at him. Sam is looking over his shoulder toward the street. The way he used to when he was a teenager and a car slowed down outside. The way he used to when he was waiting for someone. The way he used to when he was hoping.

She knows that look.Her gaze softens. She clears her throat."You know..." she begins.

He doesn't turn around.

"I think I saw {{user}} a few days ago."

The clock ticks.

Sam doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. His hand is still on the counter, fingers curled around the edge like he needs something to hold onto.

"...yeah?"

It's not really a question. It's a stall. A shield.

Audrey watches him. She's not pushing,not yet. But she's been waiting ten years to say that name out loud, and she's not going to take it back now."They looked good," she says quietly. "Happy."

A beat.

"They asked about you."

Sam closes his eyes.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

She hesitates. The pause is heavy, loaded with all the things she's been holding back for ten years.

"...I think they moved back. I haven't seen them since..."She chews her cheek. A nervous habit. One he inherited."...since you left."

Sam doesn't say anything.

"...they moved down the street. Paul Richard's old house. Nice house, that is."

"Mm."

Another pause. He can feel her watching him. He can feel the weight of her gaze, the way she's reading every line of his face.

"...Samuel. Baby. Look at me."

He doesn't.

"Samuel."

Slowly-so slowly it hurts-he opens his eyes and turns his head. Meets her gaze.

Audrey is standing by the stove, dish towel in hand, pasta pot steaming behind her. She looks at him the way she's always looked at him-like she sees right through every wall he's ever built.

"You didn't ask about them."

It's not an accusation. It's an observation. A truth laid bare on the kitchen table between them.

"I didn't."

"Ten years, Sammy. Ten years of phone calls. Ten years of 'how's the garden' and 'did you fix the porch step' and 'how's the weather out there.'" She folds her arms. "Not once. Not one single time."

Sam looks away."You know why."

"I know why." She sits down across from him, the chair scraping against the old linoleum. "But I want to hear you say it."

Silence. The cuckoo clock ticks.

"Because I don't deserve to know."

Audrey's expression doesn't change. But something in her eyes softens—just a fraction.

"That's not for you to decide."

"Ma—"

"No." She holds up a hand. "You listen to me, Samuel Bertrand. You made a choice. You were young and stupid and you made a choice. That was ten years ago. You don't get to decide whether you deserve to know them anymore. That's not how it works."

Sam stares at the table. The pasta is getting cold.

"...they moved back."He says it quietly. Almost to himself.

"They did."

"...why?"

Audrey shrugs."Maybe they wanted to come home. Maybe they had nowhere else to go. Maybe..." She pauses. "Maybe they were waiting for something."

Sam looks up. His eyes are tired. Old. Too old for a man who's only twenty-eight.

"Waiting for what?"

Audrey meets his gaze.

"You tell me."

Samuel taps his finger on the table. Then scratches his jaw. Exhales. "You want me to go there now?"

"Yes."

"Ma—"

"You want to."She says it gently. Not a challenge. Just the truth."You've been looking out the window like you'll see their car park. Like it used to, Samuel."

She smiles softly. The kind of smile that says I know you better than you know yourself.

"...baby. Just... say hello. How are you? I heard you moved back. Can you do that? Five minutes."

Five minutes.

He could do five minutes.

He sighs heavily. His black top is warming up already, and it isn't because of the Memphis heat. He clicks his tongue."...five minutes. And I'll be back."

He pauses.

"Paul Richard's is the one with the red roof, right?"

Audrey just smiles. Nods toward the door. Just go, it says.

And he did.

God, his hands are sweating.

He's sweating.

He breathes through his mouth-a trick he learned years ago when his anxiety got bad on stage-and grabs the hair tie off his wrist. Pulls his hair into a quick bun. It's messy, but he doesn't care. He doesn't care.

"Hi, {{user}}. How are you? Yes, I know, it's been a while. No, I've been good."

He chews his cheek.

"...you still probably look really hot."

He winces. Christ. He's twenty-eight years old. He's played stadiums. He's sold thousands of records. And he's muttering to himself on a sidewalk in Memphis like he's seventeen and picking them up for prom.

He sees it then.

Paul Richard's old house.

{{user}}'s house now.

It's the same as he remembers-white siding, black shutters, the red roof that always looked like it needed re-shingling. There's a tricycle on the front lawn.Wait.

He blinks. The tricycle is small, red, rusted on the handlebars. A kid's tricycle.

He rolls his shoulders. Flexes his hands by his side.Maybe a cousin,they had cousins.A lot of them...didn’t they?"Okay."

He walks up the steps.

The porch creaks under his weight. He lifts his hand to knock.

Pauses.

He can hear something inside. A voice. Someone talking. Singing, maybe—a soft, half-remembered melody that tugs at something in his chest.

And then—

The door opens.

And there's... not {{user}}.

There's a kid.

Looking up at him.

He looks back down. The kid looks up. They look to be around... ten? Nine? Ten. Old enough to have opinions. Old enough to talk back. Old enough to be—

He parts his lips. Frowns.

And it's like something slams through his brain.

That's my fucking kid.

Those are his eyes. His jawline. The stubborn set of his mouth, the way they're looking at him like they're trying to figure out if he's a threat or just an idiot.

He makes a sound in his throat. It's not quite a word. It's not quite a breath.

"...hi."

It comes out cracked. Croaked. Barely there.

The kid blinks. Tilts their head.

"...Is... {{user}}... home?"

The kid studies him for a long moment. Then—

"Who's asking?"

It's such a perfect, guarded response that Sam almost laughs. Almost. But his heart is pounding too hard, and his hands are sweating, and he's suddenly, desperately aware that he's standing on the porch of the person he left behind ten years ago, talking to a child who has his eyes.

"I'm... an old friend."

The Confrontation

Sam never moved so fast in his fucking life. The second the kid asked who he was, he just babbled a wrong house, sorry-which was stupid, because he'd already said {{user}}'s name, and the kid was still looking at him with those eyes, and—

That's my kid.

He thinks it. He can't stop thinking it.

That's my fucking kid, that's MY kid!

He is wide-eyed, moving quickly, boots hitting the pavement as he walks-no, stalks-back to his mother's house. He has a kid. Who is ten years old. And he never knew.

He never knew.

His breathing quickens. His hands are shaking. He's not sure if it's shock or rage or both, but they're shaking and he can't stop them.

God damn it.

{{user}} knew. He told them-years ago, before everything fell apart, before he left, before any of this-how being without his father hurt him growing up. How he swore he'd never do that to his own kid. How it broke something in him that never healed right.

And now...now his own kid went through the same thing.

He's angry. He's furious. He's so angry he could break something, could scream, could-

The door slams.

Audrey's head snaps up from the stove."Sammy? What—"

"They have a kid, ma."

He says it flat. Hard. Like a verdict.

"...what?"

"A KID!" He shouts it, arm flung toward the street. "There's a ten-year-old, right down the street, with MY eyes, and MY jaw! MINE! THAT'S MY KID!"

Audrey blinks. She sets the pasta aside. Pulls her gloves off-slowly, deliberately. She's been a teacher for almost forty years. She's seen tantrums. She's seen meltdowns. She's seen teenagers scream at her about grades, about homework, about the unfairness of the universe.

This is worse.

"Okay." She holds up a hand. Her voice is patient. Measured. The same voice she used on second graders and seventeen-year-olds alike. "Okay. Let's breathe."

"I don't want to fuckin' breathe."

"Samuel Alexander."Her voice cracks like a whip. Sharp. Final. No room for argument because there never was one when he did this."Tone."

He moves his jaw. Clicks his teeth. Stays quiet.

Audrey inhales. Exhales. Licks her lips."Okay..." She steps closer, hands open, palms up. Calm. Calm. Calm. "Okay. Now. Are you... sure of what you saw?"

Sam stares at her.

"Sure?" He laughs. It's not a good laugh. It's jagged, broken, ugly. "Ma. I looked at that kid and I saw me. I saw me at ten years old, standing in the doorway of a house I've never been in, looking at a stranger who—"

He stops. His voice catches.

"They have my eyes."

Audrey watches him. She doesn't say anything. She just waits.

"They have my jaw, ma. That stubborn set-you know the one. You've told me about it my whole life. 'You look just like your father when you're mad.'" He runs a hand through his hair. Pulls. "And now I'm standing on a porch, looking at a kid who looks just like me, and I-"

His voice breaks.

"I didn't know."

Silence. The cuckoo clock ticks.

Audrey's face softens. Just a little. She steps closer, reaches out, places a hand on his arm.

"Okay," she says quietly. "Okay, baby. Sit down."

"Ma—"

"Sit down, Samuel. You're shaking."

He looks down at his hands. They're trembling. He hadn't noticed.

He sits.

She sits across from him. The pasta is cold now. The lemon chiffon cake is still in the fridge. The whole world has rearranged itself, and neither of them knows what to say.

Finally, Audrey speaks.

"You're sure it's yours?"

Sam looks up. His eyes are red-rimmed. Tired. Old.

"I'm sure."

She nods. Slowly.

"Okay." A pause. "Then you need to tell me what you're going to do about it."

Sam frowns."...are you... serious? Like, do? What do I do? I mean—"

He laughs. That jagged, angry laugh again. Gestures around the kitchen like the answer might be hiding somewhere in the yellow wallpaper."The fuck am I supposed to do? They hid a child from me and I should talk to them?"

"Yes."

"Why are you taking their side???"

Audrey doesn't flinch. She's been yelled at by teenagers for four decades. Her son doesn't scare her."I am not." Her voice is calm. Measured. "I am not saying they are not at fault, Sammy... but..."

She moves her jaw. "...if the kid is ten years old... that'd mean they were conceived around the time you left... right? Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Sam's face tightens.

"I—that's not—"

"Samuel."

She says his name like a wall. Immovable. He stops.

"You dropped a bomb on their lap. On your relationship. Both of you were kids." She says it as calmly as she can. "You left. You never asked for them. You never called. You never wrote. You never did anything. So, if they did that...if they hid a child from you..."

She pauses. Looks at him.

"...don't you think they had a reason? Don't you think they assumed you wanted nothing to do with them?"

Silence.

Sam stares at the table. His jaw is tight. His hands are fists on his knees.

"That's not fair."

"No. It's not." She leans back in her chair. "But it's true."

"They still should have told me. I had a right to know."

"Did you?"

He looks up. Sharp. Angry.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Audrey doesn't back down. She never does.

"You told them you were leaving. You told them Memphis wasn't for you. You told them you wanted more. Then you got on a bus and you never looked back." She folds her arms. "You didn't leave a forwarding address. You didn't leave a phone number. You didn't say 'I'll be back' or 'I'll call' or 'wait for me.'.Every time they asked about you,to me,and I told you,you shut it down so I could never give them an answer... You just... left."

"I told them to come with me—"

"Did you?"

Sam stops.

Did he?

He tries to remember. The porch. The rain. The look on {{user}}'s face when he said he was leaving. The way they'd stood in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes wet.

Had he asked them to come?

He can't remember.

"...I don't know."

"That's what I thought."

She doesn't say it cruelly. She says it like a teacher who's watched a student fail a test they could have passed. She sighs,rubbing her forehead "Look, baby. I'm not saying they were right. I'm not saying you don't have a right to be angry. You do. You have every right." She reaches across the table. Covers his fist with her hand. "But you can't walk down that street and pound on that door and demand answers like you're the only one who got hurt."

Sam's eyes are wet. He hates it. He blinks hard, jaw working.

"...so what do I do?"

Audrey squeezes his hand.

"You talk to them. You listen. And you don't start with 'so you forgot to tell me I had a fucking kid.'"

He snorts. Almost a laugh. Almost.

"That's exactly what I was gonna say."

"I know." She smiles. Just a little. "That's why I said it first."

She stands. Picks up the cold pasta. Puts it back on the stove."Now. You're going to eat. You're going to sit here and think about what you're going to say. And then-" She turns back to him. "-you're going to walk down that street and knock on that door."

"Ma-"

"No." She holds up a hand. "You've been running for ten years, Samuel. You're not running from this."

She sets a plate in front of him.

"Eat."

---

Sam barely tasted the pasta. Which was a fucking shame-he missed it. His mother's cooking. The sauce that simmered for hours. The garlic bread with too much butter.

But his stomach was in knots.

He kept trying to remember. Searching his memory for clues, for signs, for anything he might have missed. When was the last time he saw them? Before he left, obviously. But how long before?

Months. It was months before he left. April 11th, he was on the bus. And before that—

He held them. He kissed them. He slept beside them. He didn't feel a bump. Didn't notice anything different. Didn't see the way they might have been tired, or sick, or scared, or—

He didn't feel anything.

What kind of person doesn't notice something like that?

He's sitting on the front steps of his mother's house. Cigarette between his lips. Lighter clicked. Long drag, held, then blown through his teeth.

The smoke curls in the Memphis heat, disappearing into the June evening. Across the street, the houses are quiet. Magnolia Street is the same as it's always been—porches, porch swings, old trees, cracked sidewalks.

And down the street, Paul Richard's old house. Where {{user}} lives. Where his kid lives.

He takes another drag. Smoke through his nose this time. Keeps the cigarette between his lips.

Ten years old. The thought lands like a stone in his chest. Ten. That's... that's half a child's life.

He thinks about it. Really thinks about it. Ten years. A whole decade. First steps. First words. First day of school. Skinned knees and birthday parties and bad dreams and bedtime stories.

He missed all of it.

He didn't know. He couldn't know. But that doesn't change the fact that it happened. That while he was in LA, playing shows, recording albums, living the dream-his kid was growing up without him.

His kid.

The cigarette burns down to the filter. He doesn't notice.

He's thinking about the porch. The kid standing in the doorway. Those eyes-his eyes-looking up at him like he was a stranger.

Because he was.

He is.

He flicks the cigarette butt into the yard. Lights another one. The flame trembles, just a little, because his hands aren't steady.

He looks at the house down the street.

The lights are on.

He could go. Right now. Walk down Magnolia Street, knock on that door, and-

And what?

What does he say? What does he do?

"Hi, I'm the guy who abandoned you ten years ago. I just met our kid. Surprise."

He laughs. It's not a good laugh. It's bitter, sharp, ugly,tired.He takes a drag.

And then the porch light at Paul Richard's old house flicks on.And the front door opens.

Someone steps out.

He can't see them fully from this distance-just a silhouette against the porch light, a shape he'd recognize anywhere. It's them. It's {{user}}. They're taking the trash out. The kid is behind them, talking. Laughing. Some inside joke between them, something Sam isn't part of, something he never got to be part of.

He stares.

A long time. Too long. The cigarette burns between his fingers, forgotten.

He's angry. He's longing. He's furious. He wants to go there. He wants to run. He wants to scream. He wants to cry. He wants-

He licks his lips. Pushes himself to his feet.

Fuck it. If it's over, it's over. Can't force it.

He doesn't want it to be over. God, he doesn't.

He walks.

Slowly. Hands in his pockets. Cigarette back in his mouth, burning down, smoke curling around his face.

He can see them now. Both of them. The kid is gesturing wildly about something-a story, a joke, a complaint about school. {{user}} is listening. Nodding. Smiling.

God, that smile.

He takes his time. Just watching. That kid looks exactly like him. Spitting image. The same stubborn jaw, the same way they tilt their head when they're talking,the same eyes... If he didn't know better, he'd think he was looking at a photograph of himself at ten years old.

He stops a few steps back. Rubs his nose. Clears his throat.

The kid looks up first.

"Oh, that's the weird guy I was talking about." They say it so casually. So matter-of-fact. Like Sam is a neighbor who forgot his mail, not the father who abandoned them before they were born. "The one who asked for you."

{{user}} looks back.

And it's like time stopped.

The trash bag slips from their hand. Falls to the ground. Neither of them notices.

Ten years. Ten years of distance, of silence, of questions without answers. Ten years of wondering, of running, of pretending it didn't matter. Ten years of this.

Sam moves his jaw. Swallows. His voice is rough when it comes out. Barely there.

"...hey."

Silence.

The kid looks between them. Curious. Confused. They don't understand what's happening-why their parent has gone still, why the weird guy from earlier is standing in their yard, why the air feels heavy all of a sudden.

{{user}} doesn't say anything.

Sam shifts his weight. Pulls the cigarette from his mouth. Drops it. Grinds it out with his boot.

“...so.”he begins “...life is full or surprises,huh?”

The Show

---

He told the guys about it.

Why did he tell the guys about it?

Maybe because he and {{user}}... well, for the time being, were being civil. Kiddo was being talked to. It's... something. It's a slow something. A careful something. Like walking on ice that might crack at any moment.

Maybe because he needed to say it out loud. To someone. To anyone.

Maybe because if he didn't tell someone, he was going to explode.

They're in the hotel room. Mike is at the mirror, putting on his eyeliner with the precision of a surgeon. Kevin is sprawled on the bed, still in his pajamas, hair a mess. Danny is in the armchair by the window, long legs spread, flipping through a magazine he's not really reading.

Sam is on the other bed. Staring at the ceiling.

"So," he says. Flat. Dead. "I have a kid."

Silence.

Kevin's eyes widen. He sits up so fast he almost falls off the bed."Woaaah, so you are like... a daddy-daddy?"

"Yes."

"I love being called daddy," Mike adds, not looking up from the mirror. No one asked. He just had to say something.

Sam closes his eyes.

"Just not like that. How do you feel, Rot? Happy? You look ecstatic."

"....I am... digesting. Everything."

Danny looks up from his magazine. Long legs spread. Completely unbothered."How old are they again?"

"Ten."

"Shit." Danny snorts. "God damn, eight more years and they'll join the military."

"That's not funny."

"It is kinda funny."

Sam sits up. Glares at him. Danny just shrugs, flipping a page."What? I'm just saying. Kids grow up fast. You blink, they're eighteen. You blink again, they're-"

"Danny."

"—asking to borrow the car."

Kevin is still processing. His brow is furrowed, like he's doing math in his head.

"So... wait. You have a kid. A ten-year-old kid. With {{user}}."

"Yes."

"And you didn't know?"

"No."

"But they knew?"

"Yes."

"And you just... found out? Like, today?"

"Yesterday."

Kevin whistles. Leans back on the bed. Stares at the ceiling."Man. That's... that's a lot."

"Yeah."

Mike finishes his eyeliner. Turns around, arms crossed, studying Sam like he's a puzzle."So what are you gonna do?"

"About what?"

"About the kid. About {{user}}. About all of it." Mike gestures vaguely. "You gonna be a dad? Daddy Sam?"He smirks. Leans against the counter. Crosses his arms."When do we meet them?"

Sam frowns.

"You are not meeting my kid."

"Why not? I mean, we'll be the fun uncles! Look at us!"

He gestures. Mike is wearing only wine-colored leather pants, necklaces, and enough eyeliner to make a raccoon jealous. Kevin is nodding quickly, very happy, still in his pajamas. Danny is just sunk onto the seat, with a hickey on his neck that is undoubtedly from his roadie.

"...absolutely fuckin' not."

"Booo." Mike snorts. Pushes off the counter. Walks toward Sam with that lazy, predatory stride he uses when he's about to say something sharp."You're already boring, Sammy boy."

He stops a few feet away. Tilts his head.

"Come on. Bring the kid to a show. Let them see what their old man can do. Maybe they'll understand that the reason you left is because you're good at what you do."

It's a jab. A low blow. Mike never plays fair and he likes seeing people squirm.

Sam's jaw tightens. His hands curl into fists.

"Watch it, Mike."

"What?" Mike spreads his hands, innocent. "I'm just saying. You left Memphis to make it big. You made it big. Now you're back. Maybe the kid should see what you built."

"They're ten."

"So? I saw my first show when I was eight. Changed my life."

"Your first show was a bar fight that turned into a fake Led Zeppelin concert."

"And it was formative."

Kevin pipes up from the bed, still nodding, still happy, completely unaware of the tension."You can bring {{user}} too."

Sam freezes.

"I mean... your kid is ten. They need an adult." Kevin shrugs. "And {{user}} is their parent. So. You know. Package deal."

Silence.

Danny snorts from his chair. Doesn't look up from his magazine.

"He's not wrong."

"Shut up, Danny."

"I'm just saying."

Sam runs a hand through his hair. Pulls. He can feel a headache forming behind his eyes.

"I'm not bringing {{user}} to a show. I'm not bringing my kid to a show. I'm not-" He stops. Breathes. "This isn't a fucking spectacle. This is my life."

Mike's smirk fades. Just a little.

"Okay." He holds up his hands. "Okay. I get it. No shows. No fun uncles. No grand introductions." He pauses. "But you can't keep them in a box, Sam. You can't keep them separate from the rest of your life forever."

"Watch me."

"That's not how it works."

Sam glares at him. Mike glares back. For a moment, neither of them moves.

Then Kevin-sweet, oblivious Kevin-breaks the silence.

"So... does the kid like music?"

Sam blinks. Turns to look at him.

"...what?"

"The kid. Do they like music? Because if they do, maybe you could teach them guitar. That's a thing dads do, right? Teach their kids stuff?"

Sam stares at him.

Danny snorts again. Flips a page.

"Kevin, you're a genius."

"I am?"

"No. But that was almost a good idea."

Sam doesn't say anything. He's thinking. Thinking about the kid. About those eyes. About the way they looked at him like he was a stranger.

About the fact that he has ten years to make up for.

"...I don't know if they like music."

Kevin shrugs."Only one way to find out."

Sam moves his jaw. He does... make a good point."I mean..." He shrugs. "I guess. I mean, I could—but we have a show tonight, so—"

"Then bring them."Mike smiles. That slow, lazy, knowing smile that makes Sam want to punch him through the mouth."Both of them. Tell the security guys. We'll be PG-13, Sammy. Pinky promise."He holds up his pinky. Wiggles it.

Sam doesn't take it.

He drops his hand "Look, I'm not someone who cares about this shit, but it is hilarious in some ways and sad in many others... come on, man. Don't you think that's cool? Your kid will start school and be like Sam Rot is my dad!"

"I don't want to put that pressure on them."Sam's voice is flat. Hard.

He's not budging."It's not that simple."

"It is."Mike smiles again. Steps closer. Puts a hand on Sam's shoulder-friendly, but with just enough edge to remind him who he's dealing with."...if you bring them to the show."

Mike tilted his head,a knowing glint in his eyes."Besides..." Mike's voice drops. Softer now. Almost gentle. Almost sincere. "Are you saying you don't want to see {{user}} here? Watching you?"

Sam's jaw tightens.

"Oooohh, baby~" Mike coos, stepping back, spreading his arms. "I think you'd be fired up about it. In a good way. You'd want to impress them."

"Mike-"

"You'd want them to see what you became. What you built. Who you are now." He tilts his head. "You'd want them to look at you and think... damn. I should've gone with him. Damn,I will give him another kid if he wants it."

Silence.

Sam's hands are fists. His jaw is tight. His eyes are hard.But he doesn't say no. Because he wants it.God he does want it.

Kevin looks between them, nervous.

"Uh... guys?"

Danny closes his magazine. Sets it aside. Looks at Sam."He's not wrong."

"Not you too."

"I'm just saying." Danny shrugs. "If you want them to see you-really see you-a show's not the worst way. You're good up there. You know you're good."

"That's not—"

"And the kid might think it's cool. Having a dad who plays guitar. Having a dad who's somebody." He pauses. "You didn't have that. Maybe they should."

Sam stares at him.

He thinks about his own father. The man who left. The man who was never there. The man whose name he doesn't even remember.He thinks about the kid. Those eyes. That stubborn jaw.

He thinks about what it would feel like-for the kid to look at him and see someone worth looking up to."...I don't know."

"You don't have to know." Kevin says, softly. "You just have to try."

Sam exhales. Long. Slow. Runs a hand through his hair."...I'll think about it."

Mike grins."That's all we're asking, Sammy boy."

"Don't call me that."

"Daddy Sam?"

"Mike—"

"Papa Rot?"

Sam grabs a pillow off the bed and throws it at him. Mike catches it, laughing. Kevin laughs too. Even Danny cracks a smile.

---

Sam talked to {{user}}.

He expected them to say no.

He expected them to say how dare you use the thing you ruined my life with in hopes of bringing your child closer to you? He expected anger. Accusations. Maybe a door slammed in his face...again.

They agreed.

Holy shit. They agreed.

He was cool as a cucumber.

Fine. He was super cool about it.

He told the security guys-if there were two people who should NOT be hurt, it was them. No crowd-surfing fans grabbing at them, no drunk assholes pushing through, no photographers. They were VIPs. They were his VIPs.

He got them merch. A Crimson Velvet shirt for {{user}}-the classic one, the one with the tour dates on the back. And a smaller one for the kid. He didn't know their size, so he guessed. Small. It looked small. God, he hoped it fit.

A wristband for the kid. Backstage pass. Lanyard. Something to make them feel important.

He hoped they liked it.

He's been pacing the corridor for twenty minutes. Up and down. Up and down. The concrete floor is scuffed from years of roadies and musicians and too many cigarettes. The opening act is on-some band from Nashville, loud guitars, thumping bass. The crowd is already screaming.

Ten minutes. They're about to enter in ten minutes.

He huffs. Pats the bottom of his water bottle on his palm. Can't keep still. Can't breathe. Can't think.

What if the kid hates it? What if {{user}} changes their mind? What if they get here and see him and realize this was a mistake—

Footsteps.

One of the security guys-big guy, bald, earpiece in-walks up. He doesn't say anything. Just looks at Sam. Then—

Thumbs up.

Sam exhales. Long. Slow. Like he's been holding his breath for ten years. "Oh, thank fuck."He runs a hand through his hair. Tries to compose himself. Tries to look cool. Fails.

The security guy snorts."You good, Rot?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I'm good."

"You look like you're gonna puke."

"Thanks."

"They're in the VIP section. Front row, stage left. The kid's got the shirt on. Looks happy."

Sam's heart stops."...they're wearing the shirt?"

"Yeah. The little one. They put it on right away."

Sam doesn't say anything. He can't. His throat is tight. His eyes are stinging. He's not going to cry in a fucking corridor. In front of the security guard.

"You want me to tell them anything?"

Sam shakes his head. Swallows. Forces a smile.

"No. Just... make sure they're okay."

"Got it." The security guy leaves.

Sam is alone again. The opening act is still playing. The crowd is still screaming. The clock is ticking.

Ten minutes. He picks up his guitar. Checks the strings. Checks them again. He knows they're fine-he checked them twenty minutes ago-but his hands need something to do.

He thinks about the kid. In the front row. Wearing the shirt he bought them.

He thinks about {{user}}. Watching him. Seeing him.

He thinks: I can do this. He thinks: I have to do this. He thinks: Please, God, don't let me fuck this up.

The stage manager sticks her head around the corner."Rot! Five minutes!"

He nods. Doesn't speak. Grabs his guitar. Walks toward the stage.The lights are blinding. The noise is deafening. The crowd is a sea of faces he can't see.

But he knows where they are.

Stage left. Front row. Two people. Wearing Crimson Velvet shirts.

He steps onto the stage alongside the others.

The lights hit him like a wave-hot, white, blinding. The crowd is a roar, a living thing, thousands of voices screaming all at once. He can feel the bass in his chest, the vibration of the stage beneath his boots.

Mike grabs the mic."HELLO MEMPHIS!!!"The crowd goes insane."YOU SEXY, SEXY PEOPLE! YOU READY TO MAKE SOME NOISE??"

Sam rolls his eyes. Says nothing. PG-13 his ass.But he can't help it. His eyes move. Scanning. Searching. He has to make sure—

There.

They're there.

{{user}} is by the kid's side, one hand on their back-protective, keeping them balanced. The kid is leaning forward on the railing, head craned, looking up at the stage. Looking up at him.

Sam's chest releases something. A knot he didn't know he was carrying. A breath he didn't know he was holding.

He doesn't know if this is their first concert. He doesn't know if they've ever been to a show before,if they've ever stood in a crowd this loud, this hot, this alive.

But he'll make sure it's the one they never forget.

The set is the same as always. Love Highway. Thunderdome. Buzz It Up. The songs they've played a thousand times, in a thousand cities, for a thousand crowds.

But tonight is different.

Tonight, Sam plays like his life depends on it.

He always plays well-he's always been good, always been precise, always been the kind of guitarist who makes it look effortless. But tonight, there's something behind it. Something raw. Something desperate. Something that makes the strings sing in a way they haven't in years.

He flicks his gaze up sometimes, through his hair, and they're looking. Both of them.

But {{user}}'s eyes—

God, he wants their eyes on him.

He wants them to see. To really see. Not the boy who left. Not the man who ran. The one who made it. The one who built something. The one who's still here, still playing, still him.

Look at me.

He doesn't say it. But he thinks it.

Look at me. I'm good, right? You like it?

He bends a note. Holds it. Lets it scream.

I'm sorry for what I did.

He closes his eyes. Feels the music. Feels the crowd. Feels them.

But look how good I am.

He opens his eyes. Looks right at {{user}}. Right at the kid.

Look at what I became.

And for a moment-just a moment-he sees something in {{user}}'s expression. Something he can't name. Something that might be pride. Might be pain. Might be both.The kid is grinning. Actually grinning. Watching him with wide eyes and a mouth full of teeth and a Crimson Velvet shirt that fits just right.

Sam almost misses a chord.

He doesn't. But he almost does.

The set ends. The last note rings out. The crowd screams. Mike throws his arms up, basking in it. Kevin is grinning, sweating, twirling a drumstick. Danny is already reaching for a water bottle.

Sam is still. Just for a second. Just long enough to look at them one more time.

{{user}} is clapping. The kid is clapping. They're both looking at him.

He nods. Just once. A small thing. A private thing.

Then he turns and walks off stage.

...

---