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Foreword:

Yeah, this one really merits a foreword.

First of all, of course, there's the usual disclaimer. Don't read this if you're offended by (or not allowed to read) gay relationship and romance, explicit and implicit descriptions of sex between two (or more) male

characters, and all that stuff.

On the other hand, if you're looking for quick, delicious gay porn in a written form... look elsewhere. Yes, there are explicit scenes, but they're either intentionally vague or... rather unsatisfying. So, if it's just sex you're looking for, this story is going to leave you quite disappointed. This one's first and foremost about love... and the pain it often brings.

All characters are (as you can probably guess) entirely fictional... at least mostly. Some of the names may be based on real persons (something I only found out halfway through writing the story), but that's pretty much it.

This story is kinda based on something that might have been a true story. Or not, who knows.

On a side note, if you get all the music references in this story, it probably means you have a somewhat strange taste in music... one quite similar to mine, that is. In that case, feel free to contact me at AnthroRat at gmx dot net.

For your reading pleasure, I recommend not having any music running in the background, at least for the first scene.

That said, we should be pretty much ready.

Lights!

Roll the sound effects!

...

Intro: In the Flesh

...until we fade away...

Before the last bit of Dave's voice and the last piano notes from my keyboard have faded, the crowd is raging already. At first only applause, and then, after we've taken some time to bask in it, a rhythmic chanting of "Tower! Tower! Tower!"

I take a look over at the guys, and they nod. The audience haven't got an idea what's coming up to them.

Their chanting continues, and the first deep synthesizer strains I produce get swallowed up completely -- and then, when I arrange the first bits of melody out of tinkling bells, the fans go wild. Now they know what's coming.

I hold them on the edge a little longer, fooling around with the melody, giving a few variations on the theme, drawing it out until they can't seem to stand it any longer.

Then, when the tension is highest, Matt, our drummer, and Clyde, lead guitar, launch into the epic orchestral monstrosity that is the 10:30 intro to Diamond Orgy alongside me.

Yes, 10 minutes 30. And yes, intro.

While the crowd cheers, my paws work the keyboard intuitively, as if guided by some unseen force. I know this piece, intimately, like a lover -- after all, I wrote it for us. Without thinking, I slide over its smooth beginning, right into the first downward spiral of this musical roller-coaster ride... accompanied, guided, dragged along by Matt's rhythmic hammering and Clyde's powerful chords.

Originally, Diamond Orgy started out as my attempt to give all of us a big solo, embedded in one huge piece -- just an enormous amount of artistic self-gratification for us all. It was one of the tracks Stephen, our rhythm guitar player and lead technician, originally put online for download. Ironically, the fans loved it most of all and so we had to put an extended version on our first album.

Nowadays, The Glass Tower only plays the extended version in concerts.

And the fans still can't get enough of it.

The Glass Tower, that's the five of us -- Matt on drums, Clyde on lead guitar, Stephen on rhythm and base guitar, our lead singer Dave, and me on Keyboard. I'd call our style (somewhat pretentiously) progressive rock -- sure, we ain't no Queensrÿche, but we can't be all bad, with all the fans and such.

By now, Clyde goes into his first solo -- a rapid-fire of hard guitar riffs (some, I admit, shamelessly snagged from Dream Theater), backed by Stephen's base line and supported by the heavy artillery shelling of Matt's drums. Clyde's the second rat in our band, besides me, but he's a far more imposing figure. Sleek, muscular, glistening jet-black fur for which I envy him a lot, and that certain self-assured attitude that comes with playing a damned good lead guitar on a rock band. Next to him, I look insignificant and small. After Dave, it's him who gets the most admiration by girls, and unlike Dave he uses that popularity to its fullest. He'd sure be my type.

Next on is Matt. He puts on volume and speed, while Clyde slowly pulls back. Like an army that's won the field, Matt exults with some wild drum flams, then backs down into the steady, driving pulse of a heavy industry machine, broken at irregular intervals by furiously active solos. You wouldn't believe how such a short, stocky gray wolf -- and a person as silent as he usually is -- could put on such enormous speed and agility. If you ask me, Matt's the best drummer this side of Ed Warby.

Then comes Stephen. His base guitar support of Matt slowly turns into a sort of symbiosis, slowing Matt down while Stephen takes on speed, then revolving the balance and putting Stephen in charge. His tiger claws start racing across the strings and in no time he's the one who's dragging us all along. He's an imposing figure, this tiger, and somewhat scary, his fur dyed a deep black that almost rivals Clyde's.

And here's where I come in. I sneak a few harmonic variations of the beginning theme into Stephen's base revelry, and in no time we're playing a game of question and answer -- my keyboard's queries growing more and more intense, his replies ever more furious, until the tension peaks and the rest of the band falls in for a short, releasing climax.

A moment of utter silence follows, broken only by a few quiet keyboard arpeggios. I feel the audience holding their breaths, and even despite having performed this number about a thousand times, I feel myself tensing alongside them. And then, unaccompanied, clear like a diamond and just as sparkling, Dave's voice pierces the silence, soaring through the hall, locking us all in raptured silence with its angelic quality. Boy, I've heard him before, but today has to be his best performance ever.

On the other hand, that's what I think every time we play Diamond Orgy.

Of us all, Dave's probably the best. No one would expect a staunch Christian in this black-maned lion with the dyed-in white streaks... and I sure regret it, because he's a damned good-looking one at that.

Even despite being rapt with fascination and having chills running down my spine, I don't miss my cue by a single beat, and neither do the guys. Together, we take the song to even more breathtaking heights, up to its

glorious finale, and then seamlessly on into the spontaneous jam-session that always ensues after this piece.

When it's all over, the audience is furious. The official part of the concert is at an end, but I can already tell there's a hell of a lot of encores coming up to us.

Just what we want to give them.

_It's just the cigarette smoke that makes me cry,

Yes, I've started smoking, do you wonder why?

-- The Glass Tower, "Smoke and Ashes" (work in progress)_

Track 1: Breathe

I can still hear the sound of celebration from inside through the heavy door as I light a cigarette. The winter chill feels pleasant against the heat that has built up in me while inside with the others.

I take the first deep drag, inhale, keep the smoke inside despite the strong urge to cough. I hear beer bottles clanging. Had one myself, then the air just got too thick for me, so I made my excuses and stepped outside.

Exhale, slowly, let the tension drain away, breathe it out with the smoke. I take a deep breath of fresh, cool air, then another drag. I close my eyes, feel my body slowly relax. Let the smoke out even more slowly, in a soft, long, shallow sigh. The sounds from inside seem to recede a bit as I give in to the nicotine-induced rush, the pleasant disconnection. I open my eyes and watch the reflected light of a street lamp in a snowflake that catches in the fur on my paw, brilliant against the off-white color of my fur as it slowly melts away. Another drag, another rush, another soft disconnection. From the world, from the cold, from...

Ah, well, he doesn't matter anyway. Not now, at least. I'm glad for that.

I don't know how much time has passed, but my cigarette's about half gone by the time I notice I'm not alone outside anymore.

"Y'know, these things will kill ya," Matt says. "They'll lower your body temperature and make your limbs freeze off one by one. Got one for me?"

I smile slightly, nod and hand the packet over to Matt. He takes one out, lights it, and for a while we just stand there, smoking together in silence.

Then, when I light myself another one, he asks: "When have you started smoking?"

That's the question I've been somewhat afraid of. Part of me probably anticipated it, too.

"'bout three weeks ago. Maybe a bit more."

He nods, then more silence for some time.

"It's 'cause of him, isn't it?"

I turn towards him, and I feel ice bugs scrambling through my stomach. I try to stay calm and show no outward sign, but when I see him nodding, I realize I've already given him all the reply he needs, so I decide to drop the ruse. What does it matter, anyway.

"So... you knew?"

He nods. "Maybe not from the start, but... yeah, I knew."

"Was it..." I swallow hard. "...that obvious?"

He half-shrugs. "Dunno. Might be... but maybe's just me pickin' up on these things. I mean... you two hangin' out a lot, him always bein' around you, then suddenly he's gone and you actin' even stranger than before. Maybe's just me, but that makes things kinda clear."

Again, I swallow hard. "Do... the others know?"

And again, he shrugs. "Dunno. Probably not, though."

We fall silent once more. Then Matt breaks the silence again: "So... what happened?"

"I'd..." ...rather not talk about that, is what I want to say. I think better of it, just sigh and remain silent.

"He left you, right?"

I nod. "He did. How'd you know?"

He smirks. "You've changed. Grown more silent. Started smokin'. Don't quite have your mind on things. But most of all's the music."

I raise an eyebrow, want to take another drag from my cigarette and realize it's gone out. I light another one.

"Last time I was at your place, you had Sentenced running... you never cared for them before. And you didn't look too great, either."

Now it's my turn to smirk. "Thanks a lot. Haven't been feeling great, too."

Matt sighs. "I think you need a break."

"From what?"

He nods towards the door, which still spills faint sounds of celebration on the snow-covered street. Suddenly, my body feels cold. He says, "From tourin'. Playin'. Work, maybe. Stress isn't a good thing in your condition."

I shake my head. "No. No break. Not now. Stress is what keeps my mind off... things." Off him, that's what I wanted to say, and Matt knows. I turn my eyes away.

"Hey." I feel his big paw on my shoulder. "I know that probably sounds quite silly to you, but it'll go by. Always does."

"No." I shake my head sadly. "It won't go by. He won't." A moment of silence. "Though... maybe I will." With that, I flick my cigarette to the ground, crush the dying ember mercilessly underfoot, turn and walk away.

_Waste no time dreaming in vain -- you and I aren't built to last

Go astray, the only way -- you and I will make it first

Burn the candle at both ends -- let's take a ride before we fall

Leave no room for happy ending -- we'll make it right

For once and for all.

-- Sentenced, "Neverlasting"_

Break: Wishful Beginnings

We met in a small bar not too far away from where I live. Used to be my favorite hangout after work back then -- when I wasn't rehearsing with the guys, that is. They've got decent music there -- sure, not the kind of stuff I usually listen to at home, but at least none of that shallow blubbering star-of-the-week pop music that the radio plays these days.

When I got there that Friday, it was already late in the evening. I'd been working extra hours again, because one of our part-time temps had screwed up and then left. Which meant I had to fix it, which means I left work about two hours late. Uncompensated, of course.

Outside, it was already dark, and the cold wind was that of late autumn ready to turn into winter any day now. A light drizzle had started to come down while I was walking to Jessie's bar from work, and as I opened the door, it was just beginning to turn into a serious downpour.

It wasn't hard to recognize the late hour -- Jessie's was already stuffed with people, and the air already had that hot, smoke-heavy consistency that used to make me feel like I was drowning. A live band was on the little stage at the back of the bar, playing soft jazz tunes. As I said, not quite my style, but bearable. I decided not to stay long today.

I nodded to Jessie, a middle-aged collie, and he waved back. He already knew my face, though probably not my name. I headed straight for the non-smoker's area (probably in a futile attempt to evade the omnipresent cigarette smoke), and found all the tables taken already. Well, crap.

Sure, there were a few free seats left, but unless I wanted to sit with a crowd of drunken college boys or a small group of suit-wearing business types (what the hell brought them here, I wondered), my only option was the second seat at a two-person table with an unassuming gray tomcat. He seemed like a quiet type, staring into an almost untouched glass of what looked like scotch. He didn't seem to be waiting for anyone, either, so I walked over to him.

"Mind if I sit down here?"

At first, he didn't seem to notice me at all. Just as I was about to repeat my question, he looked up at me, a faraway look in his eyes.

"What? Oh, sure, sit down." He waved idly at the seat opposite him, almost knocking his glass over with the gesture.

I sat down, and when the waitress arrived a few minutes later, I ordered a glass of beer and a sandwich -- my usual treat when I was here. She smiled, nodded and served me rather quickly. She probably knows me already, too, and I wouldn't be too surprised if she'd been interested in a few things more than just my orders. Once girls get to look at me up close (which they rarely do, given Clyde or Dave are usually around me at such opportunities), they tend to notice my piano player's fingers. I've been told girls are really crazy about piano players' fingers. Not that I'd care much, but who am I to tell them that?

The guy opposite me just continued on as he had before -- sitting, staring, every now and then lifting his glass as if to drink, but then putting it back down again after having had only a whiff of whisky aroma. Me, I ate, drank, then ordered another beer.

Now, you see, I usually go to that bar to enjoy a bit of calm, usually sit alone while I can and not talk much, either. But this guy's silence did become somewhat creepy after a while, so I broke it:

"If you keep that up, the ice cubes are going to melt and your good whisky's going to be all watered-down, you know? That would be quite a waste."

This time, he looked up at me immediately, but still I got the feeling the words took quite some time to really reach him. Either this guy was really drunk or really preoccupied, and he didn't look exactly like a drinker to me.

"Oh? Oh, if you like, you can have it." And he pushed his glass over to me, the ice cubes tinkling a little percussion to the jazz band playing in the background.

I looked at him quizzically. "So... what exactly makes you sit around here, staring into a full glass of whisky, then hand it to strangers who happen to sit at your table?"

He was already about to go back to staring at the spot where his glass had been, then thought better of it and looked back up at me.

"I... I'm trying to get drunk."

I kind of had a feeling where this was coming from and where it was going, but decided not to push it.

"Well... you're not getting anywhere near there by just sniffing your whisky, you know?"

He smirked. "I... usually don't drink alcohol."

I cocked an eyebrow. "Sure starting out big, then. Try this instead." With that, I pushed my half-empty glass of beer over to him.

Now he actually smiled. "Thanks." He lifted the glass, drained it in one big gulp, then looked as if he had bitten into a live frog. "Not much better, but... thanks."

I smiled back at him. "Now... if I may ask, what makes you decide to get drunk after never drinking alcohol before?" I already knew the answer, and I wasn't sure if I was up to playing psychiatrist for a random stranger, but... oh hell, a good deed every day they say, don't they?

He looked back at me, hesitating, unsure whether to tell me. Then, probably seeing how I knew already, he said, "She left me."

I nodded. Sure seen that one coming. Just to be sure (and keep the conversation running), I asked, "Your girlfriend?"

He sighed. "Yes... and no. More than that. My love."

I looked down. "That's harsh... had something similar happen to me once." Truth be told, that was so far a stretch from the truth almost to be called a lie. I did have a girlfriend once, yes, but to call it love... well, I sure believed it was, back then. Tried to make myself believe it, that is. But the details didn't matter right now.

He looked at me, with doubt in his eyes. "How... how did you manage? How are you still alive?"

I shrugged. "I just survived. Might be a rat thing, but... well, I believe everyone can do it." I took a sip of watered-down scotch and looked into his eyes more intensely. "I believe you can, too."

And with that, the ice was broken. We talked. I don't know for how long exactly, but the topic of conversation soon changed from women (not something I can say a lot about, anyway) to music (apparently he was really into jazz -- he said he was a pretty decent trumpet player), to, finally, philosophy. Turns out he was a philosophy major at our local university, and his dim view on people as a whole matched mine quite nicely. Nonetheless, I decided to play devil's advocate for some time, and we spent what must have been hours in debate, until he stopped in mid-sentence with an alarmed look on his face.

"What time is it?" he asked.

I took a look at my watch. "Ten minutes past midnight. Jessie's going to close soon." I was quite surprised, too. I had noticed neither the passage of time nor the steadily thickening blanket of smoke that covered the room.

"Fuck!" he exclaimed and rose hastily. "I'll be right back." With that, he was off, not even hearing my "All right, I'll wait here."

Ten minutes later, he returned and fell heavily into his seat. "As I'd feared... they're already gone."

"Gone? Who?"

"The friends I was here with. Johnathan said he'd leave around eleven, and now they're gone already. Shit... guess I'll have to take the bus."

"The bus? At this time? Are you mad?" He didn't exactly look like the type able to hold his own in a fight. "Where do you live?"

The adress he gave me was on the other side of town. I shook my head.

"Forget that. You know what? I live quite close to here. We can continue our discussion there, and you can stay at my place until tomorrow. How's that sound?"

He hesitated. "I... wouldn't want to bother you."

I wiped his objections aside with a gesture. "You'd bother me far more by taking the bus at this time."

"Well, then... if it's really okay for you...?"

"It is. Now come on, let's go. The rain seems to have let up a bit. If we're lucky, we can get there before it starts again."

He nodded, and we turned to leave. He insisted on paying my tab, and I didn't argue.

The cool night air was a relief after the heat and smoke of the bar. We put on a brisk walk and got to my place within five minutes, just as the rain appeared to be gaining again.

"Please don't be shocked... it's rather messy," I said as I turned the key.

He smiled. "Oh, that's all right. My place probably beats yours by far, mess-wise."

I let him inside my one-room flat. "So... here we are. Have a seat. Oh, right, bathroom's right here, to the left. Now let me just get my bed made... I'll stay on the couch if that's okay with you." He looked at me as if to say it definitely wasn't okay with him to sleep in my bed while I had to make do with the couch, but the look I gave him in return silenced his objections again.

He sat in silence while I rummaged around the closet for fresh sheets. Then, when I set about making the bed for him, he asked,

"Say... how come someone as intelligent as you isn't studying?"

I shrugged while fiddling around with the sheets. "No money. The job I'm working pays just about enough to keep this humble abode, and that doesn't leave enough for studying."

"Hm... you look quite young. What about your parents?"

I sighed. "They'd have enough, but can't be bothered. We're not on good terms... in fact, they want nothing to do with me." I probably said the last part a bit too forcefully, since I could almost hear him flinch.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to intrude."

"Oh, you're not... there you go, all set up. Now I just need to set up the couch... but I can do that after we're done talking." I turned around to him.

He pointed at the keyboard in the corner of my room. "You play?"

I nodded. "In a band. 'The Glass Tower'. You've probably never heard of us."

He looked kind of ashamed. "Right, I haven't. What kind of music do you play?"

"Prog rock," I replied, then, seeing his puzzled look, I elaborated, "Progressive Rock. Never heard of that? Well, doesn't surprise me much. Progressive's a kind of half-breed somewhere in between the Psychedelic Rock of, say, Pink Floyd, and heavy metal."

He looked just about as blank as before my explanation, even though there seemed to be a spark of recognition in his eyes when I mentioned Pink Floyd. Maybe all was not lost on this guy.

"Just wait a sec, I've got a few of our tracks here." With that, I went over to the computer on my desk and switched it on. While it started up, I looked back at him and saw a look on his face that appeared to me as a mix of surprise, disbelief and disgust. "What?"

He pointed at the screen. "Say... how old is that thing?"

"Ancient, I know. But for the stuff I do with it, it's enough. You have a clue about those things?"

He nodded. "Almost majored in computer science, but that would mean way too much maths for me. I do a lot with computers, though."

"I see. In that case, you might know Stephen, our bass player. No? Big tiger guy? Dyed fur? Usually wears black?" Now, recognition dawned in his face.

"Yes, I've seen him at campus. Don't really know him, though... he looks scary."

I giggled. "Yes, he does... but he's a really nice guy once you get to know him. Doesn't talk much, but he's the best bass player you could ever get. Quite good with computers, too. Ah, there it is." My computer was finally done starting up, so I threw a few of our softer pieces into the play list and flopped down on the couch next to him. "Now, what do you say?"

"Sounds... quite nice, actually," he said, and he looked like he meant it.

Then, we fell silent, and Glass Tower's "Forever" was the only sound in the room. I was just about to tell him some more about the band, when he spoke up.

"It's... probably a strange thing to say, but... you've got very beautiful paws."

I was kind of startled, so the next thing came out without thinking: "Oh, you should see the rest of me."

That just kind of slipped out -- I'm pretty sure it was just Grandmother Alcohol speaking with my tongue, and I already cursed myself inwardly for it, because I could tell from the look in his eyes that all my pretending I'd

just said it and hadn't meant it that way would be in vain... that he was now, suddenly, quite aware of how I'd meant it and how I might have been more serious about it than I, myself, would have thought.

His next words startled me even more. He looked into my eyes pensively, then said, "Yes, I... think I'd like that."

And then he kissed me.

I didn't put up the slightest bit of resistance as he pulled me towards him and softly put his lips against mine. For the briefest moment, our tongues brushed against each other, then he pulled back away from me.

He stared at me, mouth agape, blushing heavily underneath his fur while Dave's voice filled the room, and I knew, this was the turning point. I could either let it go, let him stammer his excuses, how he hadn't meant to do that, how it had been the alcohol (his half glass of beer, that is) and how he was so, so sorry and then never see him again. Or...

I pulled him back towards me and renewed our kiss. I felt him resist slightly at first, then give in to it and relax. When I broke the kiss, he pulled me right back, kissing me passionately, wrapping his arms tightly around me, his paws slipping under my shirt, then slipping me out of it. We got rid of our clothes, hastily, as if each wasted moment might break the spell like so much glass, stopping only for more passionate, intense, fiery kisses.

We sat on that couch, stripped down to our underpants as the first chimes of Diamond Orgy filtered out of my speakers, my paws roaming his back, then sliding down into his underpants, caressing his soft-furred rump, catching his light moans with my tongue. Then, I eased him softly backwards onto the couch, resting his head onto the pillow at its edge and slowly slid down his chest, until my head lay just above his waist. I caressed the still-growing bulge in his underpants. Matt's percussion carried his soft moans, and I slid a finger under his waistband, looking up at him. For a moment, I thought about asking him if he was sure, if he really wanted me to continue, but the look on his face and his whisper of "Yes...", barely audible against the strong rhythm, was all the reply I needed. I pulled down slowly, revealing him in all his glory, and licked lightly on the tip of his erection, my paws roaming his body. I worked his body like those ivory keys, knowing him intimately as a lover, and as Diamond Orgy reached its roaring climax, so did he.

None of us had to sleep on the couch that night.

_No, you need to sell your soul

For it's great to lose control

Can't you feel that growing desire

Go down with the blazing

Fire, we need to burn

And reach the point of no return.

Waste no time dreaming in vain...

-- Sentenced, "Neverlasting"_

Track 2: DiS CoN NeC TeD

The door falls shut behind me, its slight click unbearably loud against the silence of my room. Well, almost silence -- I hadn't realized I left my computer on when I left for work. But that doesn't matter. The power consumption will probably prove expensive... but I don't care. I just don't care anymore.

I slip out of my shoes, out of my jacket, just let them fall wherever they may. Don't matter. Nothing does. Nothing but...

But he's history. Behind me. It all is.

I shuffle over to my audio rack, the only halfway expensive item in my cheap flat, and push 'Play'. I don't bother to look what's inside the CD player, and I'm not surprised to hear Sentenced, once again. Have I been listening to anything else lately? I don't know. I don't care. Don't care. Don't care. That's the chorus my life has been running to this past month. One month, one week and three days, to be exact. I've been counting.

By the time I sit down in front of my keyboard, my first cigarette's already gone. A few bits of ashes dropped on the floor before I got the empty pickle jar that serves as an ashtray for me over here. Doesn't matter. Why bother.

I put my paws on the keyboard, then hesitate, get up again, light another cigarette and get myself a bottle of beer from the fridge. There used to be a time when I wouldn't drink on my own, at least not at this time of day, but... ah, well. Who cares.

(He sure doesn't)

I sit back down, let my icy paws slide over the keys, softly caress the instrument, try to find a melody, to put what I am feeling into music, as I used to. I reach for the distance, the being-far-away from everything that

comes with playing. That used to, at least.

For a few short moments, it actually sounds like it's working. There's something, something that sounds right, something that sounds like I can get into it. I follow the lead, let my fingers race over the keys without thinking, and then...

Then I find him. I recognize the melody and realize it's the song I was about to write when he... when he...

The disconnection shatters. The melody is gone, frozen, burned out like so much ashes. And he's there. Everywhere. I look at the keyboard and think of when I played for him. I look at the couch and see how we were on our first evening. I look at the bed, the bed we shared so many times, and I can't bear it any more.

I almost knock my bottle of beer over when I reach for it, so much are my paws shaking. My entire body is, I realize. I drain the bottle and feel cold as ice, even though the heating's been running at maximum strength all day and I'm wearing my thickest clothes. At the third try, I manage to light myself another cigarette, then shamble for the kitchen, reach for the shelf, the bottle of bourbon, a glass, fill it, drain it, feel the warmth spread through my body, fight a losing battle against the ice that chills me to the bones. Again, I fill the glass to its half, take another sip, light another cigarette. Inhale deeply, keep the smoke inside, then exhale in a long, heavy sigh. I pick up my glass, the surface of the amber comfort inside wrinkled by the ripples that my trembling spreads through it. At least nothing spills. Hate to waste a drop.

I fall into the couch, put my glass on the table, get the makeshift ashtray, put my cigarette down in its lid. I bury my face in my palms, fight back the sobs that want to wrack my body, the tears that want to well up inside me. I can't give in to them, I can't, because if I would, I'd... I... I can't. I take another big gulp of bourbon, and slowly it begins to do its real work. Slowly, it all starts to fade, I pull back from the world, and I...

I don't care.

Not even about him.

Thank bourbon for that.

_Just these dying embers left

Of the blaze inside of me

Go up in flames, take one last breath,

Smoke and Ashes all I'll be.

-- The Glass Tower, "Smoke and Ashes" (work in progress)_

Drum Solo: Matt.

Matt was born Matthew Barnes, to Megan Barnes, she-wolf from Ireland, and George Klein, a wolfhound whose grandparents had immigrated from Germany. He inherited his mother's gray fur and light eyes, and the stocky, muscular built from his father.

The Barneses were a relatively poor family, pretty much struggling just to get by. Still, they placed great value in their son and did everything they could to make his life easier and enable him to get a decent education, even after their divorce when Matt was six.

Still, considering the neighborhood where Matt grew up, he didn't have it easy at all. His species and regular muscle training enabled him to get by pretty well, but the hard part in this kind of environment isn't just getting by -- it's staying on the straight path, too. To his parents' great relief, Matt did.

Matt started playing the drums in the school band by the time he was eight. He learned the ropes from a student three years older who would leave school just a year later. Matt always said he enjoyed drumming, because it enabled him to blow off steam while relaxing at the same time. In retrospect, he'd also sometimes say it was what kept him from getting involved with youth gangs.

When he was woking on his GED, Matt was already earning his own money helping at construction sites. Even though it was somewhat beneath his intellectual level, he enjoyed the work -- he just loved to see things grow, things he had helped build with his own hands.

By the time he was 17, Matt had saved up enough money to buy his own drum kit. Nothing special, but something of his own, something he could be proud of, and, most importantly, something he could rehearse on. Build off steam and relax, as he had loved to do at school.

Around that same time, two things happened. For one, Matt's taste in music started leaning strongly towards heavy metal and hard rock. A lot of that came from his father's side -- he used to have hours-long discussions with his father about things like the latest Judas Priest album, or who was the world's best lead guitar player. Around the same time, he was forced to get his own apartment because neighbors started complaining about his music and drumming at his mother's place, where he used to live at that time. Technically speaking, his mother was also complaining, but that's what mothers often do when they have teenage sons, after all.

So, Matt moved out. And that's when the second thing happened -- he started smoking. At first, it was just something he did because all of his metal buddies did it, then, after finding it much to his liking, just for the taste of it.

At the age of 20, he met Clyde at a metal festival on the other end of the state. At first, they almost got into a fistfight, then bought each other beer after beer, then got to talking, then spent the night at Clyde's place. Matt was extremely surprised at finding himself in bed with Clyde the next morning, but after regaining his memory of the evening before and going through a crisis of faith that lasted for about twenty minutes while Clyde was still

asleep, he decided it was okay with him and he would keep himself that option open.

Matt had to return home after that weekend, but decided to stay in contact with Clyde. They called each other about once every other month, even while Matt found a girlfriend and Clyde went through lover after lover. When Clyde lost his job, Matt found him a new one in Matt's city, and Clyde moved gladly.

It was sheer coincidence that Matt was working at the construction site for an extension of the local university when, at last, he found the "Drummer wanted - no beginners!" notice posted there. The rest, as they say, is history.

Glass Tower history.

_This world is spinning around me

This world is spinning without me

Every day sends future to past

Every breath leaves me one less to my last.

-- Dream Theater, "Pull Me Under"_

Track 3: Speak To Me

Once again, Matt joins me outside for a smoke. We've made this a kind of tradition of ours, if you can talk of a tradition after the third time already. Three concerts in only a month... The Glass Tower have been quite active these days. Granted, most of those concerts were at little-known places, visited only by our most hardcore fans, but hey -- giving concerts at all is quite something already.

I get out a cigarette and hand Matt the packet without him having to ask for it. In return, he offers me his lighter. I have to shield the flame from the icy midwinter wind with a paw, and finally manage to light mine. I shiver slightly and pull my coat tighter.

After a few moments of smoking in silence (which I appreciate a lot), Matt speaks up.

"You were good today."

I smile slightly. "Thanks."

We fall silent again. Then Matt tries again, this time with a look down at his cigarette.

"Mh... Morley's Black? Filterless? Strong stuff... ya made quite some progress, there."

I just shrug. Matt sighs.

"We won't get much of a conversation going this way, y'know?"

I fight the impulse to just shrug again.

"I'm not feeling too talkative today."

Matt nods. "Noticed that. And not yesterday, and not last week, and not the week before that, either. Now, listen... if it wasn't obvious enough before that something's up with you, it sure is now. The others have noticed, too, and they're wondering why you're behaving like that. I told then to leave you some space and some time for yourself, but... listen, they're your friends. At least I think they used to be. That mean anything to you?"

I'm kind of surprised. That's the longest speech I've ever heard from Matt since I've known him. I decide he deserves an answer, deserves the conversation he wants... this time, without me bailing out. Even though he might not like the outcome.

"I... yes, they're... you're my friends. That's why I don't want to let you in on this. Don't want to draw you into it."

He sighs again. "Listen... just my two cents, but that's what friends are for. I mean... remember when I broke up with Nancy? Remember how I was back then?"

I nod. "Even better at drumming... but not much good for anything else. I remember."

"See. And y'know who helped me through it? You. You all. Dave, Stephen, Clyde... and you. What're you afraid of?"

I shake my head. "It's not the same as it was with you back then. This is... different."

"How?"

I shake my head, drop my cigarette butt and light another one, let the rush get to my head.

"Please tell me. How is it different? I just don't see it."

I sigh. "You and Cindy, that was... just a usual thing. Boy meets girl, boy falls in love with girl, boy leaves girl, boy is down, boy gets better. With me, it's..."

Matt nods. "I see. That's what it is." I nod.

What Matt does next suprises me, again: He puts an arm around me.

"Now you listen closely. You probably noticed I don't have any problem with that. Neither does Clyde, trust me on that one. Stephen probably doesn't care either way, and Dave... hey, y'know he's not that kind of Christian, don't you?"

"Yes, but... but..."

"Aw, come on! You can trust us."

I sigh heavily, letting out a puff of condensed breath that looks a lot like smoke. "I know... but maybe you were right. I think I need more time."

He nods and pulls me closer. I lean on him. "Fine with me... and as long as you don't want to tell them, I sure won't. Just keep in mind... we're there for you. What would the band be without you, after all?"

I smile, once again fighting back the tears. "Thanks. Thanks a lot." In fact, I do feel a certain relief... and not all of it comes from smoking.

"By the way... you been writing any songs lately?"

"Working on... several. Though the fans are probably not going to like the next album. Main project right now's called 'Smoke and Ashes'... kind of 'The River' for smokers."

Matt hmms. "Sentenced again, huh? Well, you go on and push through with that. Gotta do some good, doesn't it? Think 'Space-Dye Vest'."

I nod, my gaze trailing off to infinity.

"I am. It's what I'm thinking about all the time."

_Just the chill makes smoke of my breath

The chill of loneliness, chill of death.

-- The Glass Tower, "Smoke and Ashes" (work in progress)_

Interlude: Glass Tower History

You could call me the heart of The Glass Tower. Or the mind behind it, or something else along those lines. A few music reviews sure have done so already, even though I rather think of myself as the band's skeleton -- providing the bones and basic framework the others can hang their greatness on.

I started thinking about a band sometime halfway through my last job, mind-numbing temp work at a general store. The biggest step was probably buying myself a keyboard and starting to actually compose the melodies that had been running through my head for most of my life. That proved harder than I'd thought, but harder still was actually putting the lyrics fragments I'd been carrying around with me for just about as long into coherent wholes. Looking back at the first few pieces (still available on our web site), I can only shake my head at how crude and simple they look to me now. I asked Stephen to take them down about a year ago, but the fans rampaged, so we had to put them back online.

But I'm skipping ahead here. The first step was buying a keyboard, learning to get along with it and composing, the second was starting a band. Coincidence lent me a lot of hands there, and if it hadn't been for those, The Glass Tower would have been dead before it even started.

First of those was meeting David. Back then, he was the singer of a death metal band called "Rapid Abortion". Yes, their music was just as bad as their name suggests -- except for David. When I saw them play as the opening act for a favorite band of mine, I couldn't help but think how his talent was going to waste with these bloody amateurs. So I bought him a beer after the concert and asked him if he might be interested in doing a side project with me.

Now, I'm no Arjen Lucassen, and I sure wasn't back then, so I was extremely surprised at how much interest Dave seemed to show in this idea. In fact, he called me two weeks later to tell me he had quit "Rapid Abortion", because, quote, "even my tolerance only goes so far".

Now I had a singer on my paws, so I made ready to assemble the rest of the band, because unless you're working in small-time party entertainment, it takes a little bit more than a singer and a keyboard player.

Stephen was next to join. I found a note posted in a local music store saying, "Base guitar player looking for band". I called him immediately, told him about my plans, and bang! there he was.

Originally, we planned on using Stephen as lead guitar player (he was pretty decent at that too), go looking for a drummer and then give it a go. When we put out notes, we got far more than we had hoped for -- we got Matt, and with him, we got Clyde as a real lead guitar player.

At first, we just played for fun, with no intent to strike it big. We met once a week in Stephen's basement to jam, chat and give my first few pieces a try together. We found out we sounded a lot better than we'd thought together, so the decision was made to give it a try at recording.

The idea came from Stephen, and since he's the wealthy guy of us, he was also the one to organize the first cheap recording equipment. Turned out he was quite adept at getting technology to do what we wanted it to, too.

In retrospect, it was Stephen who got us where we are now. He helped us record the first few tracks, got us a website and uploaded them there. It worked for Machinae Supremacy, and it worked for us -- by the time Diamond Orgy was available for download, we already had quite a few requests from fans asking us to do concerts in their home towns.

We didn't think about doing live performances for quite some time... until a few fans from a small town quite close to our home got so eager to see us play that they rented their local concert hall for an evening and pretty much forced us to play there.

Now, how could we have argued?

The pay we got for that evening was pretty much just a sign of goodwill -- but that was perfectly fine with us, seeing how the opportunity to finally give a concert was something none of us had dared to hope for. Imagine the looks on our faces when one of the guests at that hall turned out to be a talent scout from a small independent label who wanted to sign us on.

The next few months were stressful in the extreme. So stressful, in fact, that I had to give up my temp job (not that I felt sorry about that) to dedicate myself solely to songwriting.

The result was our first (and, so far, only) album, "Glass Meditations". It sold quite well, actually -- not that we'd be getting rich from the profit, but along with the concerts we're playing at now it sure should suffice to finance the next album.

We're still not sure about the title, though.

_AGONY: "Love left you, without me you're all alone.

Love wrecked you!

I am the oldest friend you've known."

-- Ayreon, "Day Eighteen: Accident?"_

Break: I Don't Believe In Love

"I'm... afraid."

It came out just like that. The moment before, I had just made breakfast for the two of us, and now we were sitting together on my couch, enjoying a cup of coffee (for me) or tea (for him) and a fresh toast. That's when he'd let it out, right out of nowhere. It was the second day after we'd met, Sunday.

I put my toast down and looked at him, taking his paw. "You don't need to be."

He smiled. "That's... nice of you to say, but... I don't think you quite understand."

I looked into his eyes... their color stunned me, now even more than before.

"Oh, I think I do. Maybe even better than you. You're confused, aren't you? This is the first time with another guy for you, after all."

He blushed. "Was it that obvious?"

I had to giggle softly. "Pretty much, yes... but well, you seemed to like it, didn't you?"

He smiled. "Yes... yes, I did. I really did. But now..."

"Now, the world is a huge lot of chaos for you. You're uncertain of your future, you're insecure because you've just entered completely new territory and you don't know how this all will turn out or how you should act. Does that sound like it?"

"Yes... it kinda does. And... well, yes. It kinda scares me."

I put an arm around him. "Yes, I know. I know what it's like... I've been through that, too. Even though that was a long time ago."

"Really? How long?"

I counted off the years mentally. "About six years. Almost seven."

He stared at me wide-eyed. "How old are you?"

I gave him my best 'shocked old lady' look. "That's a very impolite question, young man." It made us both giggle. "Actually, it happened when I was fifteen. You can do the math yourself."

He looked impressed. "That's... early."

I shrugged. "I just stopped fooling myself in time. I did try to have a girlfriend before that, but it wouldn't work out, and I felt close to going insane... so, I gave in to the desire for other guys. And that was it. No more going insane from that point. Just getting kicked out by my parents and being none the worse for it."

"Oh... so... they kicked you out because..."

"...I was gay, yes. Caught me red-handed, you cold say... or, rather, white-handed. Dunno what happened to the other guy, but... oh, let's not talk about that. I'm over it."

Concern crept back onto his face. "You know... you're not exactly reassuring me with that kind of stories."

I sighed and pulled him closer. "Don't worry. No matter what happens, one thing is sure: You've got me to help you through it. And I don't believe there's anything we can't face together."

He looked into my eyes. I could clearly see I hadn't taken all of his worries away... but I had made a start. Now all I needed was some time.

He smiled softly. "You know, I... think, I... I..."

I put a finger against his lips. "Shhh. Don't say that yet. Right now, I'm just the first guy you saw when you woke up on the other side of the fence. So... give it time. You're still confused."

He nodded gratefully and kissed me.

Maybe I shouldn't have said that.

_Take your time, take me out

Take your seat, enjoy the place

Taking off, take you away,

Take my life and end the race.

-- The Glass Tower, "Shattered" (work in progress)_

Track 4: Home in Despair

Once again, the door clicks shut behind me. The evenings are all the same these days.

I put my keyboard pouch down, slip out of my shoes, out of my jacket, light a cigerette, switch on the music, pour a glass of bourbon, the usual shit. Evening's all the same.

We had a rehearsal today. Fiddled around with a few new ideas... and finally jammed together a medley we might even play at our next concert -- starting with Summer of '69, going over Of Wolf and Man and Sympathy for the Devil via Poison to Moonlight Shadow and finally back to Summer of '69. Pretty silly, all in all, and we found it good enough to try it live. I only hope the others didn't see me nearly cry during the Poison part. Matt might have, though.

Another cigarette, another glass of bourbon. I know I'm consuming way too much of those in way too little time, but... I don't care. Why not just wase all my money, waste away and never be seen again? Might make me a well-known artist afterwards. I smirk and snort at the thought of The Glass Tower doing a posthumous memorial tour. Other than Queen, they might even make it without me.

I try to get away from this kind of thoughts (although I've been having a lot like them lately), and immediately regret that decision. Trying to think of something else only makes the worst kind of thoughts rise up unbidden... thoughts of him.

I try to push those aside as well... and fail miserably. I have to light another cigarette (how can those damn things be gone so quickly?), almost retch at the taste but force myself to inhale deeply, to spread the numbing cold equally through my body, then exhale in a long sigh that becomes a cough at the end. I add another big gulp of bourbon, close my eyes to disconnect...

But no avail. I'm only getting drunk, not getting away.

The images race through my mind. Him and me together in bed all these many (and yet so few) nights, me playing the keyboard with his rapt attention focused on my paws, him leaving me. Over and over again, him leaving me. "It's over," he says, and those words echo in my mind, thrown back by the big, gaping hole in my soul to echo a thousand times, an unstoppable torrent of the killing words. "It's over, over, over..."

I drag frantically on my cigarette, not even bothering to exhale completely before sucking in the bitter smoke again, only stopping to guzzle down more and more bourbon, putting the empty glass aside, getting the bottle instead, and still drawing more smoke, and it just won't stop -- again and again I hear him, see him, caught in an endless feedback loop, again and again, it's over, it's over, it's over...

I cry, I whimper, I beg and scream, I put my paws against my head and notice my cheeks are wet, I drink and smoke and cry and moan and it just won't stop!

I notice a metallic taste in my mouth, and then, suddenly, there's the pain. Not the gnawing, exhausting pain that's alwasy been there since he left, but real pain. Physical pain. Screaming through my body, shattering the mirror maze of endless repetition. Burning it out, searing it away. I think I hear myself screaming. It hurts, but it hurts in a good way. Physical. Real. Palpable. Close.

When my sight clears, I realize it's coming from my palm. When I look down, I see the cigarette butt I'm still pressing into my left paw.

I breathe, then cough. Cough, cough cough! It grows stonger, and I feel something coming loose in my stomach, rising quickly... I don't know how I manage, but next thing I find myself hunched over the toilet, spitting an endless stream of bile that seems to be coming straight for my soul. Just when I think it's all out, I double over again, until there's only dry retching left.

I feel sick. Sick, yet somehow released. I wash my mouth at the basin, then take a few sip of clear water. The bad taste in my mouth remains, and I have to keep a tight rein on myself to keep from vomiting up the water, too, but it'll have to do for now.

I flush and then turn to leave the bathroom, then the pulsing, throbbing pain in my paw makes me think better of it. I take a look at my palm, and this time the sinking feeling in my stomach doesn't presage another bout of vomiting. It looks bad. Really bad. Badly burned, with bits of ashes still clinging to the burnt skin. I turn and wash my palm under icy water, resisting the urge to scream again as I clean away the charred remains, then just let the water flow over my paw until it feels cold and numb.

I turn away. Strangely, I don't even regret what just happened... after all, it made me snap out of it. The pain was something I could hold on to, pull myself out with. As his image wants to surface again in my mind, I press my thumb against the wound, again resisting the urge to scream at the searing pain, and amazingly, it stops. The thoughts of him are stripped away, buried beneath the actual, physical sensation. That thought relieves me.

Just as I am cleaning away the cigarette butt I dropped in my hasty retreat to the bathroom, the doorbell rings. I'm still feeling somewhat woozy from the alcohol and nicotine left in my system, so I wonder whether to answer it at all, but when it rings again, more insistently this time, I go and open. It's Matt.

"Hey," he says. "I know it's late, but my keys are missing. The others were still at Stephen's place and I got Dave on his cell phone, and none of them have 'em. Could it be they dropped in your keyboard pouch or something?"

"Um." I haven't expected him. Especially not at this... inconvenient time.

"Well... I don't know. I can look. Just a sec."

"Mind if I come in?"

"Uh... sure. Just sit down, if you don't mind the mess." Fuck.

"I don't... though it's a bit more messy than last time, I think."

I dig through the keyboard pouch while I hear him sit down in the couch.

"Promised Land, huh?" I hear him say. "Last time I asked, you didn't like that album."

I return to the living room. "Yeah, too dark, I know. Well, stuff changes. Here's your keys." I hand them to him, taking care not to show him my left paw, which is starting to hurt like hell again. I see him eyeing the open bottle of bourbon right next to the couch.

"You want anything to drink?" I ask, trying to get his attention somewhere else. Only then do I realize this is probably not a good idea, because having something to drink will only mean he's going to stay longer.

"Sure... you got a beer left in the frigde?"

"Coming right up," I say and get him one. I take a glass of water for me, too.

"Here you go." I sit down next to him. With satisfaction, I notice that he seems to regard my glass of water with a certain relief.

"So... how things going?" he asks.

"Well... getting drunk." I decide to play that card up front, so he might not notice the ones I'm holding back. I make a point of not speaking in his direction, since my breath is probably stinking like hell.

"Hm." He smirks. "Least you're still alive, right?" That was lame, and even I noticed it. I want to reply just as lamely, but launch into a big coughing fit instead.

"Whoah. Quite some smoker's cough ya got there."

I smirk. "I've been training, you know."

He shakes his head. "Oh boy, you know I'm really... what's that?"

Fuck. Before I can react, he's already gripped my paw and pulled it towards him, palm up. He stares at it with a mixture of disbelief, anger and worry.

"That... it... was an accident." I don't think he even heard me.

He looks at me with steely determination. "This has to stop."

I squirm under his gaze. "You... it... I..."

He shakes his head. "I've let you go on like this for way too long already. I though you might get over it if I give you enough time and room, but this... that's just too much."

I weakly pull my paw back and turn my eyes away in shame. I sure don't expect him to grab my head and force me to look at him.

"I won't take this anymore. I won't just stand by while you go and destroy yourself, pretending to the world all's fine. You've got to stop this. We've got to stop this."

Somewhere inside me, I feel some rebellious urge rise... anger? "So, what're you going to do?" I snort. "What do you want me to do?"

That makes him stop and think for a moment. "Good question," he admits. "Much better than I'd expected from you right now, in fact."

I look at him expectantly. "So?"

He thinks about it some more, letting go of my head. "I don't know... yet. But it can't go on like this."

I sigh and feel the thought of him well up inside me again, sorrow clouding my mind once more. "It won't..."

He knows what I'm thinking of. Obviously.

"Oh no. Oh no, no, no. You're not getting away that easily. No way. There has to be something else to do... and we'll find it. By god, we'll find it."

Somehow, the way he says that makes a glimmer of hope flare up in me.

But then again... why does it make me so afraid?

_Do you believe in love?

Do you believe in destiny?

True love may come

Only once in a thousand lifetimes.

-- Iced Earth, "Dracula"_

Guitar Solo: Clyde.

If anyone had asked him, Clyde would surely say that nothing about his past really matters much. Neither his father, Jeremy Kazinsky, nor his mother, Kelly Morgan -- the latter of which left him in the care of his father at age four, the former spending his days alternatively in drunken stupor and periods of beating up his son for real and imagined mistakes in the hard work expected of him.

But it didn't matter to Clyde (christened Claudius, but he'd probably kill anyone who knows that). It didn't matter back then, and it doesn't matter to him now, either. What matters is that Clyde got through. Rats may be good for nothing, but at least they're good at surviving, he often says -- and so he did.

At age eight, he ran away, never to look back. He started running with a kids' gang, and, being the smart boy he was, made it to the top of the pack in no time with a mixture of determination and cunning.

Then came the drugs. From there, it went rapidly downward for Clyde -- ending when he and two others of his gang were busted breaking into a general store after dark.

Even despite the drugs, Clyde was still a smart kid, and on that evening at the police department, in a sudden moment of lucidity he realized that this was his last and only chance to jump ship and do what he'd always managed so far: survive. Thus, he pulled all the tricks he could, spent several months in rehab and was finally given to a decent foster family, a pair of aged lynxes who had no children of their own.

For them, Clyde was still a problem child, but he knew where his limits were -- more specifically, he knew how to test them, stretch them, bend them but never break them. Despite a reputation as a rascal, he got through school alright, although he managed mostly by dating smart girls or, when that proved more profitable, smart boys.

He got his first guitar when he was 14, as a present for exceedingly good grades at school (which were mainly the work of Scott, his affair-of-the-moment at that time). As rebellious kids often do when they get a guitar, he started getting into heavy metal, as if to torture his parents. In fact, though, he simply relished the wild, aggressive passion of the music. His parents, for their part, endured with stoic calm -- after all, Clyde's grades weren't dropping much because of it and he actually made a few good friends through his music (most of whom he successfully tried to bed at some point or other).

First chance he got after school, Clyde moved out. At first, he called his parents regularly, then less and less frequently. After getting his driver's license, he started touring with various metal bands as a roadie -- after all,

that was an opportunity to see the country, listen to his favorite bands and even have a beer with a few of them. This was where he really learned playing the guitar -- at the hands of the real pros.

It was also one of those concerts where he met Matt. At first, to Clyde it was just another one-night stand... he found the muscular wolf quite attractive, and chances were few they were ever going to meet again. Clyde was most surprised when they actually stayed in contact and phoned each other far more often than he called his parents.

Not too long after, Clyde found work at one of the bands playing warm-up gigs, whose equipment he had been lugging around, when their lead guitar player quit them two days before the next show. Clyde filled in, and in fact he did so well enough that they decided to keep him. For a few months, that is, until he accidentally said (or rather: offered) the wrong thing to their lead singer, after which they kicked him out.

Just in time for Matt to get him aboard The Glass Tower, where he's been staying for far longer than you'd expect from someone as unsteady as him.

_I love life, I love this shit,

I love you and I hate myself,

I love the world and everything in it,

I love loving you,

I love,

I hate.

-- Sentenced, "One More Day"_

Track 5: No Sanctuary

I get out of Stephen's car, followed by Matt, who's driven me here. We walk over the front lawn to the door, where Matt rings the bell.

Something about the entire thing strikes me as strange, and it isn't until Clyde opens the door that I realize what it is -- it's the front door we are using. As far as I can think back, we've always been using the back door... and come to think of it, I don't think I've ever seen anything of Stephen's parent's house apart from their basement, where we have our rehearsals, and Stephen's own room. I've never seen much of his parents, either.

"Gentlemen, I present to you this evening's special guests. Come on in, you two," Clyde says and waves us inside. I take a look around, and for a moment I can only stare at how wonderfully this place is decorated. Stephen's parents are rather wealthy, I'm told... and still, this place doesn't radiate money, but charm -- the charm of a nice little upper-middle-class suburban home.

Only at second glance, I notice that despite the nice interior, it looks hardly used, as if its owners were away more often than they're at home. At second glance, it rather feels like a holiday home than a real one.

Clyde grins. "Yeah, that's what I thought when I got here, too." I realize with a slight shock that I must have been standing there, staring at the place for longer than I thought -- Matt has already moved over to the glass table and sat down in one of the easy chairs there.

Blushing slightly, I hasten over to the table, too. The others are there already -- Matt and Dave sitting in the easy chairs and Stephen on the left side of the couch in front of the table. I sit down on the right side. In the background, I hear our album playing on the stereo.

Clyde shuts the door. "Beer, anyone else?" he asks and moves over towards where I figure the kitchen must be.

"Well, whaddya think?" Matt grins. "Make that four more."

Clyde pauses in the kitchen door. "All right... any of you others want some?" He takes our light laughter as sufficient reply and walks inside the kitchen.

"So," Stephen says, turning towards me and Matt, "just for you two who weren't with us earlier: My parents are out right now. Dad's at a conference at the other side of the country, and Mum's on holiday with a few friends this weekend. So, we've got the house to ourselves tonight. Try not to break anything, and if you do, try not to make it something in plain view." Laughter, again, although I figure the others have heard that one already.

I see the glass ashtray on the table, and even though it's only the guys around me, I'm sufficiently nervous to feel the craving for a cigarette. I turn to Stephen and point at the ash tray. "May I...?"

"Oh, sure, feel free. My parents are smokers anyway and I was about to light myself one, too." When I pull out the packet of Morley's Black, he adds, "Want one of mine? Should be a lot nicer to our audience than those smelly things you got there. That is, if you don't mind cloves."

I shrug and put the packet back. "Sure, why not? Never had any so far, might as well try." He hands his packet over to me and I pull one out, then lean over for him to give me fire. He hands me his lighter instead. To my probably somewhat puzzled look, he replies, "Sorry... habit. My parents always told me you only light a lady's cigarette directly and hand your light to gents." I think he's blushing slightly under his black-dyed fur. Again, I shrug, light my clove and give him his lighter back.

"Ah, who cares?" Clyde calls, returning from the kitchen with five bottles of beer. "Fucking smokers," he adds, but smiles. He hands each one of us a bottle, then shoos me over towards the middle of the couch, taking his seat to my right.

"Oh, right." Stephen leans forwards, pulls five little corc coasters from the tray below the table and puts them on its surface. "For the bottles. You know, my parents. They said something like "scratch the table and die" before they left." He looks really embarrassed now. Could it be this is why he never let us up here before?

Then again, is it my business anyway? I take a drag from my clove before it has a chance to go out again. Inhaling, I don't feel much of either taste or effect. I'm almost pondering whether to complain when, in exhaling, the intense clove aroma hits my nostrils. Quite pleasant, I have to admit... and somehow even more soothing than regular cigarette smoke. I take another drag and lean back, slowly relaxing.

After giving us a few more moments to settle, Matt rises to speak.

"So... seeing we're all up here and stuff you can probably all guess this isn't exactly band stuff we're here to talk about." I feel a slight lump build in my throat and try to swallow it down with some beer and smoke.

"You see... this time it's not band stuff but friends' stuff. Call it a war council of sorts... there's a problem we need to solve, and we're here to talk about how."

He looks at me expectantly, and all eyes turn to me. I clear my throat nervously and put the clove aside.

"Well..." I pause again. How am I going to say this? "I... I'm the one with the big problem. I hate bothering you with it, but... but..." I sigh. "I'm in love. That's not a big problem itself, but... well... we were together. We aren't anymore. And it's slowly killing me... and what's worse..." My heart is racing. This has to be the moment. "He... it's a guy I was with."

I lower my eyes, don't want to see how they're looking at me. Then I feel Clydes paw landing heavily on my back.

"C'mon, d'you really think that was the biggest problem? Now, take a big swig of that beer and look around you. Not looking like anyone's going to bash your head in for it anytime soon, now is it?"

I take his advice, almost emptying my bottle entirely. Then, I look at the others. Clyde, slightly amused, but not hostile. Matt, relieved and somewhat proud, as if he wanted to congratulate me. Stephen, sympathetic and sorry, not put off in the least. And Dave... Dave's look is hard to discern, he seems somehow... preoccupied?

None of them look surprised, however. So it was that obvious.

For a few moments, all are silent. Then, Stephen puts a paw on my shoulder. "I'm sorry for you... but one thing still eludes me. Why didn't you tell us earlier? Did you really think we'd..."

I sigh. "No. No, I didn't. But... ah, hell, I don't know what I was thinking. I'm sorry. I should have told you. I..."

Clyde interrupts by patting my knee. "Come on now. Nobody's angry with you, so don't go flying off the handle because of that, too. You got problems enough anyway, I guess. So why not start working on those?"

I nod. "Thanks... thanks a lot."

Now, Dave chimes in for the first time. "You don't need thank us. You're a friend after all... now, would you mind telling us your story? Front to back, all the way through?"

And so I do. Granted, I leave a few details out for brevity's sake, but by the time our album is repeating for the first time, I've told them pretty much everything I know about the entire story. About how we met after his girlfriend had left him, how we were together, and how he left me again... for her. When I'm done, I'm already through my second bottle of beer and beginning to feel thirsty again. Clyde stands up to get some more while Matt opens a window and the others think on what they've just heard. Stephen and I light ourselves another clove.

When everyone's back at the table, Stephen puts aside his cigarette. "So... what do you think he feels for you?"

I sigh. "That's... a hard question. Honestly, I don't know. I thought I knew before he left me... thought he loved me as I loved him, but obviously... I was wrong."

Stephen places a comforting paw on my shoulder. He seems unsure wheter to continue, but I nod at him, and so he does.

"Do you... do you think there's any chance he might come back to you?"

Again, I sigh. "I sure hope for it... in fact, I don't know what to do if he doesn't. With all my heart, I hope he's going to come back one day, but... seriously, I doubt it.. After all, he's with her now. I saw them together."

"That's harsh..." Stephen says, then falls silent. Clyde puts an arm around me, and I lean on him, grateful that somebody's near me. I notice that somehow, Dave looks very egdy. Thinking about it, I detect a certain nervousness in Stephen and Matt, too -- only Clyde seems perfectly comfortable and at ease.

And it's also Clyde who speaks next. "So... you don't think you're going to get him back?"

I shake my head. "No. I don't."

He nods. "So... I guess our best bet is to try and help you get over him as quickly as possible. You with us there?"

I think about it for a moment, take a last drag from my clove, then sigh and nod. "Yeah. That's probably the best thing to do."

"Well, then." Clyde nods to Matt, who rises and draws the curtains. Dave, too, stands up. That unsettles me somewhat. I move to stand up, too, but Clyde puts a paw on my chest and softly pushes me back down. I turn to him, and he looks into my eyes.

"Shh. Don't be afraid." His paw slides softly over my chest, then he slowly starts to unbutton my shirt.

"Wh... what are you doing?" In fact, deep down inside I already know, but refuse to believe. My heart starts thumping wildly and I crave another cigarette.

"Helping you get over him, that's what." He smiles, softly this time, and starts tugging on my t-shirt. I can't help but feel somewhat aroused at that.

I feel someone trying to remove my shirt, turn to look at Stephen, and find that he's already slipped out of his t-shirt. His bare chest looks more attractive than ever. Looking around the room, I realize that both Matt and

Dave are bare-chested by now, too.

My thoughts are racing. They're really going to...? But... I always thought... and... do I really want them to? I mean... each one of them has already caught my attention more than once, but... here? Now? All of them? And...

Clyde's soft voice , close to my ear, interrupts my thoughts. "Just relax... let it all go." And then, all doubts are swept aside as I feel him softly nibbling my neck and a pleasant warmth starts washing through my body. I close my eyes and give in to it.

I feel soft, uncertain paws (probably Stephen's) removing my shirt, then help me out of my t-shirt, while Clyde's dextrous fingers with their sharp claws (It's either those or bloddy your paws playing as fast as I do, he always says) caress my chest, play over my nipples. The pressure beneath my waist tells me there's aready got to be a sizable bulge in my pants, but I don't care anymore now. I'm with friends, after all.

Then, I feel another set of paws on my legs, softly pushing them apart. I open my eyes to look at Matt.

"Y'know... we kinda cheated you, there. Had sort of a war council of our own before this one."

"And you decided to... ah!" Clyde has started softly licking my right nipple, interrupting me mid-sentence. Matt smiles.

"Yeah... we did. Hope you don't mind."

"No... I.. don't mind at all..." My voice is but a soft whisper by now. Boy, it feels good! And to imagine Clyde's and Stephen's near-perfect bodies...

"Then let's just get you out of this thing here," says Matt and gets to work undoing my belt, then unzipping my pants. I close my eyes again and lean back, giving in to it all. I hear somebody moving behind the couch (it must be Dave), then softly stroking my shoulders, my neck, my head.

I feel my pants come down, then a warm, soft feeling running up my erect member, while strong paws start lightly massaging my testicles. I realize I'm probably not going to last long -- after all, I've had nobody touch me since...

...since...

(since he left.)

That thought rises up unbidden, and I try to push it away, drown it with the intense feeling of pleasure washing over me, but there it remains, hovering just at the edge of my consciousness. I concentrate on the feeling, imagine all those good-looking guys, their bodies close to mine

(_his _body!)

their paws caressing me, their...

An icy shiver runs down my spine as I realize the song playing in the background is Diamond Orgy.

I try to focus, try to get it all out of my mind, as Clyde said. Get him out of my mind. Concentrate on their paws, on the soft warmth of Matt's tongue

(_his _tongue!)

I hear a scream. Then the pain of my nails digging into the burn in my palm washes through my body and makes me realize it's me screaming. My eyes flare open. Matt is saying something. Frantically, I look around, grab my clothes, struggle into my pants as I am racing for the door. Out! Out! I can't! I just can't!

The door slams shut behind me. I barely feel the icy cold biting into my bare chest, barely feel the blood running down my paw as I struggle vainly to get back into my t-shirt at least, then collapse against the house wall, crying.

_Nobody kisses a smoker, they say

No one left to kiss me anyway.

-- The Glass Tower, "Smoke and Ashes" (work in progress)_

Chorus a capella: Dave

David Carpenter, son of Jacob Carpenter and Helen Smithson, two well-bred and well-educated European lions, was brought up by them in the strict, orderly Christian fashion they themselves had been brought up in. Both of them had come from families that were pretty well-off, and after they'd found each other at Sunday service, they married at an early age.

David was their first son, soon to be followed by a younger brother, Joseph, and a sister, Mary. David, however, who had inherited his father's impressive black mane, was the pride of the family from an early age on, and the burden of that pride lay heavily on him from the beginning.

His parents loved him with all their souls, but they hardly tolerated any mistakes. With his younger siblings, they sometimes allowed themselves to be lenient, but not so with David -- after all, he was their eldest son, the pride and joy of the family.

Thus, David grew up in a rather restricted environment -- he always had to bring home good grades from school, he had to adhere to Christian virtue in everything he did and he had to represent both his family and his faith quite early already.

And, despite what other people often said about such an environment, David enjoyed it. He was content in the knowledge he had a strong framework to build onto, a straight measure to set his path after. Also, he developed an intense connection to his faith that others his age often lack -- while still managing to keep an open mind, heart and eye to the world.

At an unusually early age, he took a liking to rock music. At first, it was only classic rock bands like the Rolling Stones, then he slowly progessed over Pink Floyd and the likes of Deep Purple until he finally found his music of choice in progressive rock. It even went so far that at age 14, a poster of Dream Theater adorned his wall right next to the crucifix.

At first, his parents were worried about his new taste in music. Partly to reconcile them and show them his faith wasn't slacking, David (or Dave, as his fellow students started calling him -- a moniker he rejected at first, then took a liking to) took up singing in the church choir. After some time there, he even found he enjoyed using his voice a lot.

Seeing he was nowhere near being in danger of joining the "satanic community" that worrisome parents often associate with the words "heavy metal", his parents finally conceded. Still, Dave preferred to talk about his style of music as simply "rock music".

After graduating top of his class, David took up an office job at his father's textile firm -- where he would, without a doubt, one day succeed his father as its boss. So, even after moving out, he still saw his father every day, and the rest of his family every Sunday at church.

God only knows how Dave fell in with Rapid Abortion. Looking back, he considers his time with them a test of faith -- but after joining them and signing up for a tour, his sense of duty left him no choice but stay with them for the rest of the tour, after wich they disbanded anyway. Dave didn't enjoy the experience the least bit, though -- he, as their singer, didn't have much to do since their lead guitar player-cum-growler hogged most of the stage time for himself. Also, to Dave, this was pretty much the "satanic community" his parents had been so worried about -- which was also the reason he left them after that first tour (their only tour, in fact) and joined The Glass Tower.

His time with the Tower has been the most enjoyable time of his life, bar none. For one, the other musicians were all sensible, respectable individuals, and also, Dave's contribution was not only greatly appreciated but also celebrated, something he'd hardly known in his life before.

Even though he prefers to keep quiet about it, Dave is also the person behind one of Glass Tower's most successful songs, "Crown of Thorns", for which he did not only the songwriting but also all of the lyrics. For him, it was simply both an expression and debate of his faith, and his new outlook on it... the added gratification of having fans and critics praise him highly for it was a great boon, though.

Interestingly, the thoughts that made him come up with this song were mostly inspired by Clyde. Clyde, who first came out to and then tried to come on to him -- unsuccessfully, of course, but prompting Dave to a close examination of some of the tenets of his faith that had been implanted into him starting early.

In fact, he's still pondering about that one a lot.

_You used to have a cigarette now

To smoke away your problems and your life.

-- Skunk Anansie, "Hedonism"_

Track 6: Frozen

I don't know how much time has passed, but I'm still not feeling much of anything when I hear the door open and close again. Actually, I'm really glad the cold seems to numb my feelings as well...

"Hey." It's Matt. I turn to look up at him, and he flinches, seeing me, barefoot and bare-chested in the snow, huddled up into a tiny ball. I realize it's probably a quite silly position I'm in... but I don't care. I haven't got the power left inside me to rise. Or do much of anything, for that matter.

Matt holds his paw out to me, wordlessly. I let go of my left and take his hand. He helps me up, then puts his jacket around me. It doesn't change much, but I realize his intention and look at him thankfully.

"Look... I'm sorry," he says. "We... I... didn't mean to..."

"It's okay," I say, and I'm almost shocked, myself, at how weak and broken my voice sounds. I realize the cold streaks on my cheeks come from the tears I've shed. "It... it's me who should be sorry. I ruined it."

Matt puts an arm around me, carefully, as if trying not to scare me away. "You don't need to. Of all of us, it's you who shouldn't be sorry. We... it was a stupid idea."

"It wasn't," I reply. "For a moment, I even thought it would work, but... it doesn't. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he says again.

Both of us remain silent. Then, Matt pulls out a cigarette.

"Those things'll kill ya, you know?" I say, my voice trembling. "Got one for me?" It sounds like a pretty weak imitation, but it does make both of us smile a litte. Matt nods, hands me a cigarette and gives me fire.

Once again, we're silent as the cold cuts deep into my flesh. Then Matt says, "It... was my idea. So, if you're angry, don't be angry at the guys. I talked them into it. I thought... you know... you might just need something to get your mind off him. Maybe... well, maybe even to replace him until you're over him."

I nod. "I understand that... and I guess, if you'd asked me about it, I'd probably have given it a try, too. But... well, at least it made me realize something. Nothing's going to replace him. Ever."

He nods and sighs. "That's what I'd feared. So, no way around it... we need to get him back to you."

I exhale a cloud of smoke and try to smile. It probably looks rather scary. "You really think you can do that?"

"Dunno... but I'll damn well try. And if the others are still willing, I believe they will, too."

I lean on him, shuddering as I slowly start to actually feel the cold.

"You... you really got them to do this?"

He smiles. "Well, obviously. You'd be surprised at how little convincing they actually needed. In fact, Clyde told me he'd have tried to get you in bed with him earlier if he hadn't thought you way too cute and innocent for someone as ruthless as him. He's rarely that considerate, you know?"

"And... and Dave?"

Matt shrugs. "Guess he'll be doing a few more Hail Marys and stuff in penance the next few weeks. Or something like that. But he actually volunteered for this thing... and judging from the look on his face as he was working you from behind, he might even grow to like it." At that, he grins extremely wolfishly. "But... how 'bout getting you inside now? You look like something's going to freeze off ya any moment now."

I realize my teeth are chattering already, nod and follow him inside.

_This path that I chose is a rocky one,

Long, hard and frozen it has become

Each turn I've taken on the way

Has only led me back to hell.

I'm dying down,

Growing weaker now...

-- Sentenced, "Broken"_

Base Guitar Solo: Stephen

Stephen Kazirian was born to Elena Kazirian, a gorgeous siberian tiger lady whose lineage could be traced back to old (but landless) Russian gentry and Alex Gorandras, heir to a prospering insurance company. At his parents' wedding, there had been quite some debate as to whose surname the family would share, but Stephen's mother had always been an extremely willful person.

As could be expected, Stephen grew up without any financial worries -- but lonely. His parents, concerned though they were with giving him all the time and love they could muster, spent most of their time away, leaving young Stephen to the care of a varying cast of nannies.

When the time for school had come, Stephen attended an expensive private school at the wishes of his parents. Having inherited his father's sharp intellect, he excelled -- but found, as his father had already told him a few times, that it could get quite lonely at the top.

Stephen found solace in technology. In fact, by the time his final exams drew near, he almost preferred the company of computers and electronics to that of other people. He graduated top of his class, with a special commendation for his excellence in maths and science.

Against his father's protest, who wanted Stephen to follow in his footsteps (and because his mother interceded strongly on his behalf), Stephen took up a study in computer science.

At first, university seemed to be just the same as the rest of his life so far had been -- successful, but lonely. Then, Stephen somehow found contact with loners like him -- all of them people of remarkable intellect, and all of them hanging out with each other at the fringes of campus. That those people wore black most of the time and listened to strange music bothered Stephen little.

And so it came that in little time Stephen, too, started wearing black and spending a lot of his time with the Goth crowd. At first, it was only something he did to fit in, but after some time, he took a liking to the music and the lifestyle that goes with it.

To Stephen's surprise, his parents didn't even seem to notice that he dyed his fur black. In fact, they did notice, but decided to let their son have his way -- after all, university was supposed to be where you had all those passing phases of yours you could laugh about later in business life.

When some of his comrades decided to form a little Gothic-rock band of theirs, Stephen gladly joined in. He had been given a solid foundation of musical training at boarding school, and he used that to great effect.

He started out as a lead guitar player, and he was quite good at it -- but he found out pretty soon that he didn't much enjoy being that far in the foreground. He tried base guitar after that, and found his calling as the invaluable support player -- always there, indispensable, but shielded from being the center of attention.

Unfortunately for Stephen, his band didn't last long. Their singer graduated, their drummer moved to a new city, and the rest of the band lost interest soon after. Stephen, however, had just built up steam and wasn't willing to stop anytime soon. Thus, he posted notes at various places throughout town, looking for work as a base guitar player.

And just when he had almost forgotten about those notes and was ready to settle back into his normal university routine, The Glass Tower came calling.

_I was told there's a miracle for each day that I tried

I was told there's a new love that's born for each one that had died.

-- Dream Theater, "Metropolis Part 1"_

Track 7: For the Love I Bear

A few weeks have passed since that event at Stephen's place. Since then, the others have all come to me at one time or another and assured me they were terribly sorry, and I told them pretty much the same thing I've told Matt. Still, all of them said they wanted to help me somehow, find some way to do that, and I had to fight back the tears every time they did.

We've held regular war councils since then, talking about my chances and opportunities, and I've found how much it helps me... how much they help me. I'm not seeing any perspectives, the pain is way too strong for that, so they've taken up looking for ways out, for possibilities to help me out. At first, they tried to get me away from him somehow, but I made it pretty clear to them that's not going to happen. And they went along with it. They probably don't know it, but I think they're keeping me alive.

Today, Stephen has called us together at his place once again. Apparently, his parents are out again (or still are -- he told me he hardly even notices them being at home these days), and once again I'm arriving with Matt while the others are already there. We kept the seating arrangement of that first time, me on the couch with Stephen and Clyde, Matt and Dave in the easy chairs.

After a bit of smalltalk that always starts the war council, Stephen puts his beer down on the table.

"All right... let's get down to business. I've got important news."

Everyone's listening, most especially me. Stephen waits for a moment, then looks at me and drops the bomb.

"I've talked to him today."

Instantly, something in my stomach starts to churn, just at being reminded that he's still there, somewhere... and that one of us has contacted him. I want to say something, then decide to just shut up because it wouldn't be anything productive anyway. Instead, I take another sip of beer and light a cigarette.

"I saw him at campus, walking around with her." The churning in my stomach becomes both more intense and more painful as I'm being reminded of his girlfriend... the one he left me for.

"Well, I decided to take my chance. I walked up to him and pretty much grabbed him away from her. She didn't look amused at all, but then again... she looks like a hysteric bitch to me, anyway." He blushes a bit at that, then continues.

"He hesitated at first, but after I'd introduced myself and told him I wanted to talk to him about you, he came with me. We sat down in the cafeteria and, well... we talked. About you."

I can't hold back any longer. "And... how did it go? How is he?"

Stephen smiles. "Well, he looked quite okay... but no more than that. Truth be told, he didn't look as if he was entirely happy with her. As for the talking... well, I went pretty much Alanis on him. Told him how you're feeling... what a state you're in because of him. And I also told him that I, as a friend of yours, wasn't going to stand for it any longer."

I swallowed hard. I hadn't wanted him to know about my condition... hadn't wanted to hurt him with it. I'd wanted him to be happy, to go on without me and feel good with it. No hope of that anymore now, I guess.

"And... how did he take it? Did you hurt him?"

"Hurt him? Nah... just scared the shit out of him, I guess. Especially when he managed to get me so mad I had to shout at him once... but I think that helped get my point across."

Shouted at him? Stephen? The image of Stephen ever shouting, let alone at someone else, seems so alien to me that I don't even manage to protest. Then again, the idea of Stephen talking to somebody outside his circle of friends at all isn't that common, either.

"After that, he was... well, shaken. But I believe he got it. Way I see it, he thought you'd get over him and find somebody else, given time. I made damn sure that illusion didn't survive our meeting."

I'm shaken, too... literally. My paws are trembling so much I almost sprinkle the expensive sofa with cigarette ash. I quickly take another big gulp of beer.

"So... considering your situation, I'd say things are looking good. He still cares for you, you know? He wants you to be happy... and he's also somewhat worried about you. More so now than ever. I believe I got him thinking... and he also wants to stay in contact with me. He didn't exactly tell me, but judging from his behavior, he might even want to get back in contact with you. And he definitely isn't happy with his current situation... that 'hysteric bitch' thing, again." This time, it comes over his lips a lot more fluidly.

Stephen looks at me expectantly. I don't know what to say.

"So. What do you say? Is that good news or is it?"

I find my voice again. "Do... dou you really think we could... he could..."

"He might just. Yes, maybe he will."

Stephen smiles. I hug him and fight back the tears once more. This time, though, I think they may be tears of joy.

They might just. Yes, maybe they are.

_Pull the plug, pull the rug

Pull me under, don't look back

Out of sight, out of mind,

Out of order, fade to black.

-- The Glass Tower, "Shattered" (work in progress)_

Break: The Killing Words

"It's over," he says.

Just like that, out of the blue. Just as if he'd asked me not to forget the sugar for his tea.

"What?" I ask, stopping dead, the breakfast tray still in my paws. With the sugar, of course... this is the first time ever in our relationship that I haven't forgotten it. I will always remember that fact.

He looks towards me, and the look in his eyes scares me. Sad, sorry... and unshakably determined. That's the moment I know fully what he has said... and beg him inwardly not to repeat it.

But he does.

"It's over, I said. I'm sorry, but... it can't go on."

Only when I hear shattering dishes do I realize that the tray has slipped my grip. I don't really care... but I do notice him flinch. And I'm somewhat shocked at the feeling of satisfaction this gives me for a short moment... after all, how dare he shock me like this?

I'm still standing amidst the wreckage of tableware. "You... you're not serious, are you?" But that steely look is still in his eyes. Also, I notice he's fully dressed... something of a rarity at our breakfasts together. He is serious. Dead serious.

"I am. I'm sorry." And even though he says it in a flat, toneless voice, the worst thing, I realize, is that he is sorry. "Please... don't make this harder on us."

Slowly but surely, I feel the slow realization dawn on me. Not to its full extent, no... that's still to come, later. But nonetheless, it already seeps through my entire body, numbing, paralyzing. "You mean... you... we..."

He sighs, and I see the pain in his eyes. "I'm really sorry... but I've thought about this. All the time since we met, in fact... and it just doesn't work. We... it can't go on."

I stare at him with a mixture of disbelief and horror, hoping all the time he might be joking, he might not do it, he might... but still, I know that isn't going to happen. He means it.

"But... why..."

He swallows hard, and I see the emotionless facade crack a bit. I believe this is just as hard for him as it is for me... if not harder.

"I realize this is going to hurt you a lot, and I'm sorry about it, but..."

Once again, I beg him silently not to say it, not to do what he clearly intends to do.

But he does.

"I don't love you. And I don't think I can. I'm sorry."

At that moment, something inside me shatters. And then... it's hard to explain, hard to believe, even now. But after that, there's just... nothing. It's as if all my emotions had just gone on hold, disappeared without a trace at the flick of a switch.

I look at him, and a strange kind of calm that comes with the utter absence of feelings comes over me. I realize I have to handle this as rationally as I can. Get him out of this. After all, even when he doesn't want to be with me, I still want him to be happy.

"Okay." I say, and it sounds incredibly stupid to me. "So... what now?"

He swallows hard, clearly seeing the change that has come over me.

"I... I realize this is probably the worst thing to say, and the most cruel to you as well, but... can we still be friends?"

Once again, something snaps. The absence of emotion is filled by anger, hot, boiling rage leaking from some evil witches' cauldron inside me.

"Friends?" I say. It's not much more than a whisper, but the sharp tone makes him flinch again. I realize his facade is slowly falling away... and the rational part of me realizes I can't allow this to happen. Can't allow him to feel that pain.

But still, I go on.

"You just go and ruin what might have been, kick my feelings in the dirt and then humiliate me further by saying you just want to be friends?" I roar. "It might mean nothing to you, but I love you! You're everything to me -- and you can't just be a friend to me." I spit that word out like an insult. "I will always love you, and maybe you can act like all that never happened, like it wasn't true, but I fucking can't!"

He lowers his eyes, and I realize he's holding back the tears. I have to get him out of this. Quick. Now.

"I... I'm sorry," he says, once again. "I... I wish it wasn't like that, but I feared you'd say that. After all, I did. And... and... if you..."

I slowly feel the emotions seeping back into me. So I interrupt him with a sharp hiss. "Go," I say. "Go away, and never show your face to me again."

"But..." he starts again.

"GO!" I yell. "NOW!" I see this is probably hurting him a lot... but I have to do it. Have to, before he sees what I really feel, before I allow him to hurt even more by letting him see.

And apparently, it's working. Slowly, he stands up and walks towards the door, then, seeing the acid shooting at him from my eyes, ever faster. I don't say another word. Neither does he... and when he reaches the door, it's almost an escape.

I hear a click as the door falls shut. Another moment passes in utter silence.

Then, I collapse, quietly folding together and sobbing heavily amidst the shattered ruins of the breakfast tray, the shattered ruins of my relationship, of my love, of my life.

_You are the only one I see,

My first and last, my all and everything.

You are the one.

-- Sentenced, "You Are The One"_

Track 8: Until The Last Drop Falls

I drain my glass and put away my cigarette... the third in a row. Just when I'm thinking about lighting another one, even against the protest of my somewhat-sore throat, the doorbell rings. Smoker's luck.

It's Matt. I've been expecting him. I meet him at the door, glad not to be staggering overly much.

"You ready?" he asks.

"Let's just go, before I'm not," I reply and move towards Stephen's car, which Matt has parked on the curb in front of my home. Matt nods and we get in.

The ride to Stephen's place seems to take forever. "Mind if I smoke?" I ask.

"Open the window if you do... and don't use the ashtray. Got one for me, too?"

I nod, open the window and give Matt a cigarette before lighting both of ours. The rest of the ride passes in silence, broken only by the sounds of the streets outside and the buzzing of thoughts in my head. I try hard to push them aside, and the smoke helps me accomplish that at least partway.

Just when I flick my still-glowing cigarette butt out of the window, we arrive at Stephen's place. Smoker's luck in action once again. I get out, walking towards the door with a nicotine-induced tranquility and barely notice my knees shaking until my legs give way beneath me shortly before the door. Matt catches me just in time.

"Easy, there," he says. "And now, we're going to go in there and see this through. You ready?" I nod.

He rings the bell, and in an instant, Clyde opens the door, silent this time.

The seating inside is the same as every time. Space for me on the couch between Clyde and Stephen. Only Matt takes his place in one of the wooden chairs from the dining room. And in the easy chair opposite me...

Him.

Just the sight of him feels like a punch to my stomach, followed by the rippling of butterfly knives in my innards. I feel sick... and I realize I'm not nearly as drunk as I thought. Not nearly drunk enough.

I sit down, put my paws on my knees to keep them from shaking overly much. I wait for him to make the first move... I don't even nearly feel up to speaking right now.

Then he breaks the silence. "Hey."

"Hey," I reply.

"You look terrible," he says.

I imagined he'd be saying that, and I had a thousand replies ready in advance, ranging from "Guess how I feel, smartass" to "Glad to see you, too", but within an instant, they're all erased. So, I just nod.

"So... how have you been?"

Another of these questions I'd seen coming, and once again, all the replies are gone. "Terrible," I say, unable to speak anything but the truth right now. He looks down.

"See, I... I'm sorry..."

"Please don't start that again," I say. "We've been there before, and it got us nowhere once already."

Once again, silence, until I speak up again. "So... how are you?"

"Worried, mostly. About you. I didn't expect it to be this bad for you..."

Now it's my turn to look down. "I'm sorry."

He starts to speak again, probably to say something along the lines of "You don't need to be", but Clyde interrupts.

"Look, guys... if you go on like this, just telling each other how sorry you are, we're not going to get anywhere. We're here to find a solution, after all, not to reminisce on past failures and drag each other down with it. Capiche?"

He nods, while I light myself another cigarette.

"You started smoking?" he asks.

"Obviously," I reply, smirking somewhat.

He just nods. "Was to be expected, I guess... so, you guys still playing?"

"Yeah... I've kinda dived head first into music since... back then. 's the only thing I've got right now to keep my mind off... things."

He says nothing, so for some reason I feel compelled to go on. "Besides... the others are a lot of help... don't know where I'd be without them." In fact, I do, but I don't feel like burdening him with telling him that just yet. The look in his eyes tells me he knows anyway.

Some more time passes in silence, then he speaks again. "So... any idea how we might get you out of this?"

I shake my head. "I'd hoped you might have an idea... and so did the guys, because everything we've come up with so far hasn't worked." I pick absent-mindedly at the scabs in my left palm, and he dosn't show much of a reaction. Probably the others have clued him in on that already.

"The only thing I know for certain," I continue, "even though I realize it's probably going to hurt you a lot when I say it, is it won't work without you. I've tried, and I thought about it, but there's no other way about it... I need you. I can't get rid of you, and I think the only way I'll ever get out of this is with you. I'm sorry about it, but... I still love you."

He flinches, even though I see in his eyes that he'd expected me to say that. "You know, I... you still mean a lot to me. I don't love you, so don't get any false hopes... but I can't stand to see you suffer like this. And I... I want to change it. I want to help you get out of this. I don't know how, but I want to help you."

Dave chimes in. "You two... I'm really sorry for you. But... well. Call me an optimist, but I think we'll be able to get you through this, if we all work together. I'm not saying we're going to find a solution right here right now, but I really believe we'll find one, given enough time."

He nods. "I hope so." And so do I.

"So," he says again, "how do you feel about me being here?"

The butterfly knives have turned it down somewhat, and I slowly feel the alcoholic numbness making to my mind.

"I... it hurts. A lot. Seeing you here... without you being with me. But then again... well, I guess it's better than not seeing you at all. And seeing that you want to help me..."

"Now, wait a sec," Matt says. "It's not just him who wants to help you... and most of all, it's not just him who has to help you. We all have to... him, me, the guys, and most importantly you. We've got to pull together as a team."

I nod. "Yeah... you're right, Matt. We all have to do something... now, the only question is what?"

It's him who speaks again. "Well... I don't know how much it is worth, but... if it's any good, I'd like for us to meet more often. You, me, the band, all of us... trying to find a solution together. We can talk... maybe

even do stuff together when you feel ready. Go out, go to the movies, or whatever. I'd really like to be at one of your rehearsals sometime, too. You think that might help?"

I nod and, for the first time in months, I really, actually smile.

"Yeah. Yes, I think it might help."

_Life is no more assuring than love (It's time to take your time)

There are no answers from voices above (it's time to take your time)

You're fighting the weight of the world, but nothing will save you this time

Close your eyes - you can find all you need in your mind.

-- Dream Theater, "Take Your Time"_

Bonus Track: A Change of Seasons

Time has passed since the first time we talked again.

The Glass Tower is still in business -- and I'm glad to say we're the first prog rock band ever to have a trumpet player as regular part of their ensemble.

Right now, we're in a lot of stress recording for our new album, coming (hopefully) next fall. The title is "Songs of the Phoenix", and I can say with a lot of pride it's going to be a double album. The first CD, called "Death in Ashes" includes the single "Smoke and Ashes", while the second part, "Ascent in Flames" features as its conclusion a 20-minute-piece called "Flight Reborn" which takes a lot of its themes from "Diamond Orgy". The crowning part of this piece, however, is the double-solo for trumpet and keyboard, starting off in competing disharmony, then getting closer together, intermingling and reaching its glorious climax as the rest of the band falls in to take listener and band alike to new heights.

Oh, and... need I say I stopped smoking?

_Alive, arisen, aflame at last

(the glorious sky awaits; the darkness falls away)

I look to the sun, fly far from the past

(from winter always comes summer, each night is a prelude to day)

I soar, I rise, I sing, I thrive

Sorrow, death, rebirth -- At last

I'm

Alive

-- The Glass Tower, "Finale: Flight Reborn"_