The phone rang and rang and rang as Drake prayed for his brother to pick up. It was only midnight, and so on a Friday, he knew even Josh wouldn't be asleep yet, so why wasn't he answering? He was about to hang up and risk calling the house when he finally heard his brother's voice.

"Hello?"

"Josh?" His voice came out smaller, weaker than he'd expected it to. There was a pause, and Drake wondered if he'd lost the signal. Josh spoke again, finally, his voice flat.

"What is it, Drake? Mom said you had a gig."

"I do, but I-" His voice broke. Drake cleared his throat and tried again. "Could you come and get me?"

"What?"

"Could you please come get me, Josh? Please?" He was slurring his words, and he felt so, so sick. The room was spinning. "Please?"

"Are you drunk?" asked Josh, his voice colored by accusation and anger.

"I don't know," answered Drake honestly. He certainly felt like he'd been drinking far too much, but he's pretty sure he'd only had one beer. "Josh-" His brother sighed heavily.

"Look, Drake, after you apologized in chem class, I hoped things could change, but then I came home and found out you ditched school to play a gig, and now I hear that you're drunk? Drake, seriously, what the hell is wrong with you? You're just as irresponsible and immature as you were before all of this. You haven't changed a bit—you're still the same selfish jerk."

"Josh, I-" He was answered by the dial tone. Josh had hung up on him.

Drake sighed and put his phone back into his pocket, looking around him. He was standing on the back porch of the house his band had played in, and though he could hear the party continuing to rage inside, out here, it was fairly quiet. He squeezed his eyes shut against a sudden wave of dizziness and nausea, gripping the porch railing tightly.

"Hey, kid, are you alright?" he heard a deep voice say from behind him. Drake turned around, and saw some guy he'd noticed in the crowd earlier, watching his band play.

"You don't look so good. Can't hold your liquor?" the man tried to joke. Drake couldn't respond, afraid that if he opened his mouth, he'd vomit. "Look, if you come with me, I'll show you where you can lie down for a while." Drake nodded feebly, and stumbled as soon as he let go of the railing. He vaguely felt the guy wrapping an arm around him, and although he thought it was a little weird, the way his arm was wrapped around Drake's waist, he didn't say anything, too grateful not to be falling over. He was barely aware of the two of them moving, the crowded living room and hallway passing by as a blur, and then he was being laid down on a bed.

"Thanks," he slurred, and closed his eyes. He didn't get a response, and so he turned his head towards the door just in time to see the other man lock it. Drake frowned. "What're ya doin'?" He could feel his heart speed up, and he tried to sit up, but found suddenly that his body wasn't responding to him. He heard more than felt himself starting to hyperventilate.

The bed dipped suddenly as the stranger sat next to him. "It's Drake, right? I'm Martin." He felt a hand run through his hair. "You're very pretty, you know that, Drake? I was watching you playing, and fuck, did I want you." Drake's heart skipped a beat, and his mind was racing, frantically telling his body to move. Nothing happened. "You want it, don't you? I can tell—the way you were moving your hips, those tight clothes... I bet you're a whore. Don't you want me to fuck you?"

Drake summoned all of his energy for a single word. "N-no."

Martin laughed. "No? Well, then you're a fuckin' tease, kid, and you had this comin'."

X X X

Josh was beyond angry, he was irate. He was irate because of Drake, and thinking that the word irate described his feelings made him think that Drake wouldn't even know what irate meant, and that only fueled his anger.

He had felt so bad during chemistry class, seeing Drake so upset and pathetic, but when the teacher had asked if he wanted to go talk to Drake, he'd said no—he'd have had no idea what to say. He thought what he was going to do when he got home and saw his brother—a secret he would never tell Drake even once they made up (which Josh knew then that they would have to, at least at some point) was that Josh never stopped calling Drake his brother in his thoughts—and he thought the best thing to do, the best way to act with Drake, would be to go back to normal, initiate something fun between them, like watching the Blues Brothers or playing ping pong or asking if Drake had written any new songs lately or trying to tell him about the most recent episode of Oprah. Eventually, Josh was actually excited to go home and see Drake, something that hadn't happened for nine days, since Josh had decided to kick Drake out of his life.

When he finished school and saw that Drake hadn't taken the car, he grimaced, thinking of Drake walking all the way home in those wet clothes. When he got home, and saw that Drake wasn't there, he got a bit worried. When he called his mom to ask if she knew where he was, he found that Drake hadn't gone home because his band had a gig at some party, and he was pissed.

Josh hadn't expected Drake to be waiting for him at home, hadn't even expected Drake to even be home, really, but for Drake to up and leave like that from school, acting that upset, and then suddenly feel well enough to go play with his band that night at a party? Well, Josh was disappointed.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Josh knew that Drake wouldn't embarrass himself in front of their entire chemistry class just to trick Josh into forgiving him with false remorse, and he knew that come hell or high water, Drake would never miss a chance to play with his band. Therefore, Josh stayed worried, and he stayed mad, and he intentionally stayed home and stayed awake to wait for Drake to come home. He told himself that he was going to yell at him, he told himself that he'd always waited up for Drake when he had a late night gig Josh couldn't make it to, and that old habits died hard. He rationalized it and told himself that he was still mad at Drake.

So when his phone rang at midnight? Yeah, Josh was still pissed. So what if Drake's voice sounded a little less steady than usual? So what if Drake sounded a little shaken? So what? Why should Josh care?

Josh refused to pick Drake up, he refused to bail him out of whatever mess Drake had gotten himself into this time. He hung up on him. And when his phone rang again an hour and a half later, he checked the caller ID first, and, seeing that it was Drake, sent the call to voicemail, turned off all of the lights, and climbed into bed.

So what if he didn't actually sleep that night, still awake when the day's first light came drifting into the room, and Drake came stumbling in? It didn't mean he cared.

X X X

Drake didn't remember the man—Martin, the name came to him unbidden, Martin—leaving. He didn't remember getting up, or putting his clothes on. One moment, he was being pressed into the mattress, squeezing his eyes shut in hopes of blocking out the groans and the "oh, fuck, yeah"s of the man on top of him, and the next moment, he was back in his clothes, sitting on the edge of the bed, holding his phone to his ear as he waited for Josh to answer him again. After a few rings, it went to voicemail. Drake sat there, unmoving and almost statuesque, and let Josh's voice filter through his brain as he told him to leave a message. He didn't even notice when the beep came, when it started recording.

He said nothing, merely breathed heavily, laboriously, nearly hyperventilating again, and then he began to cry, still holding the cell phone to his ear, still waiting to hear his brother's voice. He began to ramble without realizing what he was doing, what he was saying.

The door to the bedroom opened, and he whirled around, letting his hand and the phone drop to his lap. It was Trevor, and Drake saw his friend smile suddenly. "Dude, we've been looking for—are you crying, man?" Drake frowned again, then reached his hand up to touch his face. When he drew it away, he saw that his fingers are wet. He remembered crying, but, strangely, did not remember the tears. Did that even make sense? Maybe he really was drunk.

"I guess so."

There was a moment of silence before Trevor asked, "Are you okay?" Drake didn't answer immediately.

"I don't know," he heard himself say. "I don't... I don't think I am."

"Do you want me to drive you home?" asked Trevor, and Drake thought suddenly that despite Trevor's immense stupidity, he was a good person, a good friend. Josh's words echoed in his head—irresponsible, immature, selfish jerk—and Drake shook his head "no."

"I think I'll walk."

"Dude, it's like, miles to your house," Trevor said skeptically. "Are you sure?"

"Fuck, Trevor. Yeah, I'm sure." Drake was glad to hear his voice come out stronger, steadier, more certain than before, and it apparently reassured Trevor, who smiled again and shrugged.

"'Kay, dude. You're so weird," he said, shaking his head. He left, and Drake stood up. Stopping in the front room only long enough to grab his guitar, he left the party, walking out into the night air and starting what would turn out to be a trek of several hours to get home, the walk taking even longer due to several times when he had to stop to throw up. He didn't get back until dawn.

X X X

Josh was cornered by his mom and dad the next night in the living room. "We want to know why you and Drake are fighting," said his parents, "and when you're going to make up." He sighed and explained patiently to them that he wasn't going to go out of his way to make up with Drake, that he was tired of Drake's irresponsibility and immaturity and that if Drake wasn't willing to change, then Josh was just done with it all. His parents gave each other worried glances, but decided not to intervene, believing that the boys would work it out for themselves, like they always did.

Walking into the kitchen to make himself dinner, Josh saw Drake standing there, looking into the living room. He wondered how long Drake had been standing there, if he'd heard it all, and if his feelings were hurt. Josh decided that it wasn't his concern, and that he shouldn't care, and that the glimpse he'd gotten of Drake's desolate, empty eyes and passive expression, of Drake still wearing the clothes he'd come home in, shouldn't bother him at all.