The angel in his dreams had hair like black velvet and eyes like sapphire, but every time he saw her, he was drowning. He choked and coughed awake, gasping for air again.
It was the third time that morning.
The first time, he'd awoken to the tug of an IV and muted beeping of machines that lulled him back to sleep. The second time, it had been the consistent beeping that tethered him to consciousness for a moment, the pale morning light coming through the window. But the grogginess had been overwhelming, a heavy fog that dulled the edges of the duller, throbbing pain behind his eyes, and he closed them once more. But the third time, after he saw the angel in his dreams again, a woman in scrubs approached, her sneakers squeaking on the linoleum.
But her hair was blonde.
"Don't move too much, love," she said. "You're still all banged up."
Hollis watched her through heavy eyes, saying nothing. She wrote down something on a clipboard and met his eyes, smiling.
"Lucky you have such dedicated friends." She gestured with her pen toward the wall. Hollis followed her gaze, seeing Ash, his legs awkwardly folded, head lolling against the chair back in the corner of the room. He looked too large for the space he occupied, like he'd been crammed into the scene. The sight pulled at something inside Hollis, something raw and jagged, and he bit his swollen lip.
The nurse came over, adjusting something on the machines. "Don't worry," she said, as though reading his uncertainty. "You're going to be just fine. You'll be discharged today."
He didn't speak, watching her make one final note on the clipboard before she turned to leave. As the door swung shut, he was alone with the quiet rhythm of machines and the silent presence of Ash, asleep in the chair, his body crumpled into a position that defied comfort.
Memories of the past hours bled behind Hollis's eyes, unwelcome and insistent. He remembered the raw energy of the stage, the way his heart raced out of time with the music. He recalled Ash's words before the show, too loud over the ringing in his ears, and his own angry response at the party afterward, before everything blurred into nothingness.
He closed his eyes, but the images wouldn't stop—Ash's frustrated face as he'd tossed Hollis his mask, the sting of disappointment in his eyes, the anger in his voice when pulling Hollis off of Darian at the party.
Hollis rubbed his temples, as if it might erase the memories of his own voice, harsh and slurred, dismissing everyone's concerns. The way he'd pushed Ash away, both last night and so many times before. But Ash had stayed anyway—stayed like he always does. Unwavering and loyal to a fault.
A real friend walks in when the rest of the world walks out. It was a phrase that left his mother's mouth almost daily, and one that never left his mind. It repeated within him like a constant, a ticking clock that never ceased. It became a sort of unintentional anthem for him and Ash when they were fourteen. It had seemed at the time that, no matter what, they could never keep a member in their band other than themselves.
The old days flooded back, clear and sharp, back to when they'd sat behind a foldout table in Hollis's dad's garage, holding auditions for a drummer and a bassist. Several boys from their class had shown up, even a couple of girls and a few people a year older than them. But most couldn't hold a candle to Hollis's standards, so he waved them all away. Ash didn't complain, though. He never did. He simply rested his chin in his palm, gave them all sympathetic smiles, and thanked them for coming.
This sort of routine continued until they'd said no to just about every musician in their middle school. By sophomore year, not even Johnny Jackson, the best bassist any of them knew, had made it through three measures of Hollis's original song before Hollis stood up, shaking his head, and left the theater of their school without a word. None of them was the same as Hollis. They had no heart in their music, and anyone who didn't have as strong and bitter a drive as Hollis didn't deserve his time.
He felt music running through his veins. It was everywhere—in the trees, in the waves, and in the cities. He could look at someone and tell whether or not the music they played pumped through the corners of their heart and rushed throughout their body by the looks on their faces when they played, by the quality of the music they produced. It wasn't that the notes needed to be perfect or the rhythm be flawless and synced. It was a piece of one's soul that Hollis was looking for. It would come through the instrument and float through the air along with the melody, and if one understood music the way Hollis did, they could see it too. Hear it, feel it. It was what resulted from blood, sweat, and tears over piano keys when everyone else was out enjoying their life. It was forcing heavy eyes to remain focused on sheet music in the middle of the night, when everyone else was long asleep. It was everything to Hollis, and, along with Hollis's mother and Otto, Ash was the only one who'd ever believed in it.
When they finally found Linden and Kai, they became a full band. They all pitched in their funds from their part-time jobs and rented studio space to practice and record. Hollis's mother, Margaret, would visit them every so often, bringing them dinner or snacks and staying for a while, watching them. She'd become their biggest supporter until she got sick. Then, instead of her bringing things to the studio for them, they all brought things for her.
Her cancer had come back. So they drove an hour to the hospital where she was staying—where Hollis was now—to bring her flowers, food, and her favorite tea from the coffee shop near where Ansley Street was built shortly after. They visited her and laughed and talked, leaving the image of Ash asleep in the chair now all too familiar, because that had been Hollis.
He'd stayed with her and missed work and studio time, attempting to write songs as he watched the traffic out the huge window. But, one evening, when his mother was nearing the end of her fight, the sun had been setting, and the city lights came on and Hollis set down his pen. He watched the night come alive for a while before hiding his face inside his arm, draped over the back of the chair. He cried like that for a long time, not noticing that Ash had come in until Ash's arms were already around him.
Ash hadn't left that time, either.
Now, Hollis fiddled with a fraying edge of the hospital blanket, trying to find the words he'd say when Ash woke, but they were slippery, elusive. Every time he thought he had one pinned down, it slid away, leaving him with nothing but the sound of his own breathing. He contemplated waking Ash now, getting it over with, but the idea of confrontation—even one that might end in forgiveness—exhausted him.
The gray morning light faded to white as the sun crested the horizon, bleaching everything into stark, sterile monochrome. After a while, the door creaked open, slicing through the uneasy quiet, and a shadow stretched long across the linoleum. Hollis tensed, expecting a nurse, but it was Otto's familiar figure that stood in the harsh fluorescent light.
His sharp blazer contrasted with the stark surroundings, and his usual air of authority seemed less defined, edges blurred by something that Hollis rarely saw in him: hesitation.
Otto took a step forward, the corners of the room drawing tighter around them. Ash was still asleep, an oblivious participant in the silent confrontation.
"Didn't expect to see you here," Hollis muttered, voice hoarse. His attempt at deflection was thin, crumbling under the strain of everything left unspoken. Otto's presence brought a different tension, one that pierced through the layers of self-pity Hollis had wrapped himself in.
"You think I wouldn't come?" Otto's tone was even, stripped of its usual condescension. Like a spotlight on Hollis's unguarded thoughts.
"You've got plenty of other things to worry about," Hollis said. The retort was half-hearted, more reflex than conviction, but he couldn't bring himself to let go of the last shreds of his denial. "Besides, you said you had to go to Ohio."
"A band's petty disagreements can wait—your mental state takes precedence, I believe."—Hollis tensed his jaw, looking away—"I told you, I haven't forgotten the promise I made to Margaret."
He took another step forward but Hollis stayed silent. The room seemed smaller, the space between them narrowing. And when Otto spoke again, there was a softness in his voice that caught Hollis off guard.
"You have to get things figured out, or else everything you've worked for will fall apart into nothing." He paused, as if waiting for Hollis to respond, but the only answer was the steady beep of machines.
Hollis tightened his grip on the thin blanket. "It's not that simple."
Otto stepped again. He looked down at Hollis, a hint of something like compassion softening his gaze.
"You think you're the only one who's ever gone through this? You've got a gift, and you're throwing it away."—A bitter laugh escaped Hollis, echoing against the stark walls, but Otto didn't flinch—"I've been in your shoes, more times than you know. And I came out the other side. You can too, but not if you keep this up."
Each word was a chisel against Hollis's defenses. He let out a breath, the resistance in it weakening, and looked at Ash, still asleep. His presence was a silent testament to Otto's point.
The fight drained from Hollis, leaving a raw acceptance in its place. "What do you want me to do, then?"
Otto's posture relaxed. "Take a break. Write some music. Breathe. Everything will be right where you left it when you come back."
The words sank in, echoing with a truth that Hollis could no longer ignore. The room felt stifling, the fluorescent light harsher against the shadows around his thoughts.
"If you want to stay here," Otto continued, "I'll put you up in the Hilton, get you a car. You can take a drive to Taylorsville, go to the old farmhouse," he said, clearly regretting the words as soon as they left his lips. "Like I said," he added, "if you want to."
After a long, suffocating moment, Hollis nodded, a reluctant gesture that marked the beginning of something like agreement.
"I'll make some calls, then," Otto said, turning to leave without anything more. Just like Otto, covering up his momentary vulnerability with business-as-usual. Even still, he stopped at the door, glancing back with an intensity that lingered even after he was gone.
Hollis stared at the closed door, the emptiness left in Otto's wake a reflection of his own conflicted state. He let himself sink into the thin hospital mattress, feeling its stiffness against his back. He forced his eyes to remain open, focusing on the room's bleak details—the chipped paint on the wall. The linoleum's dull sheen. The plastic chairs that looked like they belonged in a waiting room rather than a place of healing. His fingers traced the edge of his hospital bracelet, the name "Rhodes" printed in black letters that seemed to mock him, just like his mask.
His mask.
His heart began to race, suddenly hyper aware of everything he'd missed: Wait—where had he ended up when he left the venue? How did he get here, in this hospital room? How long had Ash been here, and was Ash the one who brought him here? And his mask—dear God—where was the freaking mask?
He racked his stupid brain inside his pounding head, cursing himself under his breath and trying to retrace his steps in his mind. But everything was broken into pieces that he couldn't put together—fragments of memories that were impossible to align.
He listened to the heart monitor's beeping, its relentless pace matching the chaotic rhythm of his thoughts. It would all be fine, he told himself. As soon as he was discharged, he would walk along the streets near the venue and retrace his steps for real.
He shifted on the bed, his discomfort now more emotional than physical—the burden of Ash's loyalty when Hollis didn't deserve it, Otto's suggestions that only brought back memories Hollis didn't want. It was all a weight pressing down with both dread and clarity. So he closed his eyes and let his mind spiral into a state of half-consciousness, where, he'd hoped, the calming angel with black velvet hair and sapphire eyes would visit him again.
But, no matter how hard he tried to picture her in his drifting sleep, she never did.