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“By making me look fucking stupid? I could cut you off in a second. I don’t fucking need you, you know that, right?”
“Well, someone needs to watch over you so you don’t OD. That’s a pretty important job, I’d say.”
The only thing Braden could think in response to that was that none of this was fucking worth it. Not the money, not the girls, not the fame. Especially not the fame, holy shit. He’d give it all up right then and go back to being. Well, not a nobody, but back to the way things were before. Before the PR managers and brand deals and gambling sponsorships and OF whores. All the opportunity he’d gained through streaming wasn’t worth it if it made every day into a torturous cycle that he couldn’t spend one sober day in. Maybe he would be happier leaving it all behind.
It was a feeling that he knew would pass once the situation had blown over, because he liked money too much to quit.
He liked that he could be on a charter plane to wherever he wanted in as little as an hour’s notice. He liked knowing that people relied on him, that soon enough Drago would be texting and calling to apologize and then sucking up to him for the foreseeable future. He liked having that power over people. It was exactly what he had worked so hard for.
He just wanted one day out of the spotlight, to LDAR in bed on his phone without the obligation of putting on a show.
Now, it was past two a.m., and Braden was sitting alone in a lounge in the private terminal of the Las Vegas Airport. It was quiet aside from the soft twinkling elevator music and it smelled nice, nothing like the sweaty inside of the club and its booming DJ set. Apart from himself, the room was empty. Ravenous, he took a bag of greasy potato chips, a granola bar, and a water bottle from the bar of complimentary snacks laid out for guests. He ate them quickly, then fished his phone out of his pocket, ignoring any notifications on his lockscreen to make one call.
Demir had picked up the phone quickly. Of course he did.
“Hey, Clav!” he said, “What’s up, man!” He sounded wide awake when he answered, like the call hadn’t interrupted his sleep at all.
“Hey,” Braden said. “I was just. Well, I’ll be in SF pretty soon, and I was wondering if you’d wanna meet up.”
Braden could hear keyboard clicks in the background, indicating that Demir was at his desktop. “Oh, like, tomorrow?”
“More like right now.” Outside the huge window of the lounge, the plane was parked and the crew was getting everything ready for takeoff. “It’s just me, and I won’t be here for long. If not, I’ll just get a hotel or something.”
“You’re not gonna stream here? What’s the plan, then?”
“Nah, man. No plan, I just…” want to see you. “...Just some bullshit that went down on stream a few hours ago. Just wanna get away from it all for a bit.”
“Oh, for real? I didn’t see, I’ve been playing Resident Evil for the past, like, shit, six hours. Haven’t even slept.”
Braden smiled hard enough that Demir could probably hear it through the phone and said, “I know.”
It was the first time he’d smiled all month, probably.
The WiFi on the plane actually worked, so he texted back and forth with Demir about timing, but mostly kept his phone off and enjoyed the silence. It was only about an hour flight, so he couldn’t sleep, instead getting lost in a daydream about sleeping safely next to his friend, which would soon, he hoped, become a reality. Demir insisted on picking him up even though Braden said he’d just Uber.
When Demir’s white Tesla swung in front of him he was instantly reminded of the time they spent driving around LA last year with K Shami and Violet during that stupid Locked In thing. Suddenly, he wanted to stay awake for a little while longer and enjoy reliving that time, when the fame, so minuscule compared to what he had now, was new and intoxicating and he wasn’t so exhausted all the time. In the cool night, quiet except for the distant rush of cars on the highway, the memory enrobed him like a crisp hotel duvet would, and comforted him like laying his head atop a perfectly fluffed pillow.
“You don’t have a bag or anything?” Demir asked when Braden opened the car door and slid into the passenger seat.
“Nah, I left it.” Braden closed the door behind him, and as they were pulling out he continued. “I had some nice designer shit too. Some Dior shirts, shoes.” Demir didn’t care about the obvious underlying brag, and neither did he, really; it just fell out of his mouth instinctively.
It was baffling to him how someone could go without sleeping for so long and be as functional, especially on the road, as Demir was. Maybe it was the drugs still in his system, but Braden found himself dozing off with his head tucked in the window, hardly even bothered by every bump that knocked the crown of his head against the door. He was so tired, his neck could barely hold his head upright. Demir let him sleep as they cruised down the highway, but with how little traffic there was at such an hour, it was only about a thirty minute ride.
“My dad’s not here, so. It’ll be cool if you stay over,” Demir said when they pulled into his neighborhood.
Demir’s house was nice, but not luxurious. Compared to what he'd grown used to, anyways. It reminded Braden of his mom’s place back in Hoboken, except better because his mom wasn’t there. Just Demir, and the lingering smell of home-cooked meals coming from the kitchen, and the living room beyond the entry way set up with obvious intent for accommodating familial gathering. Warm, soft lights compared to stark white for filming inside. It was exactly what he was seeking. Real privacy. Just hanging out without it being some sort of spectacle.
They both kicked off their shoes. “So,” Demir hesitated, unsure, before asking, “what happened?”
It drew from Braden’s chest a big, heaving, dramatic sigh. “I’ll explain. I’m so tired, dude, can I lay down somewhere?”
They padded with socked feet through the hall to Demir’s bedroom.
“Oh! Wanna see Nacho?” he remarked, distracted already. “He might be up.”
Braden had forgotten about that lizard. Demir’s pride and joy. His child, really. Did Braden care? No, not really, but it distracted him from reliving the fucked situation he ran away from, so he followed Demir over to the big glass cage taking up a third of his bedroom, glowing with red lights he assumed were something beneficial for the creature’s health and wellbeing. That was another thing that made Demir so different from everyone else, not excluding Braden himself. No one he spent time around had the focus or desire to take care of a pet. Himself and Drago would probably kill a goldfish in a week, even with combined effort. The irony of interacting with Demir’s prized reptile after having just been on trial for shooting an alligator was not lost on him.
He watched as Demir reached into the cage with tact, delicately scooping up his pet with both hands. “Nachochitooo,” he cooed, holding Nacho close to his sternum, letting the lizard’s claws hook in his shirt.
Braden wondered if lizards could feel love. The animal seemed indifferent to being manhandled, and he figured that was probably the closest it could get to expressing affection for its owner, otherwise it would have, like, bitten him or hissed or something.
“Wanna hold him?” The lizard still clung to Demir’s shirt, but when Demir directed his attention at Braden it appeared to turn its head towards him as well, mimicking it’s owner’s movement. Or maybe it was just a coincidence.
He didn’t really care to hold it but Demir seemed too excited about the idea for Braden to turn him down. He humored him and overturned his hands, cupping them in the same careful posture he’d seen Demir make. But instead of placing the lizard into his hands, he turned away produced a bottle of Purell and pumped a dot of it into Braden’s open palm.
“Sorry, gotta sanitize first.”
“Right.” Braden grimaced and rubbed the gel into his hands. It smelled strongly of alcohol, which made him feel a bit sick. Once it dried, Demir gently picked each one of Nacho’s sharp little claws from where they caught in his t-shirt and set him down in Braden’s hands.
If not love, he supposed Nacho could have enough cognition to recognize Demir as the one who dropped juicy mealworms into his enclosure every day, and understand that now he was currently being held by a stranger. He squirmed his tiny body in Braden’s hands, even as he tried to bring Nacho close to his chest like Demir had. Maybe he was holding him too tight, but he didn’t want to drop him.
Demir held his phone up and snapped a picture. “That’s good,” he said, smirking with pride. He’d probably post it somewhere private later, with some ridiculous TikTok audio in the background. “He likes you.”
Braden wasn’t quite sure that was true, but he appreciated it nonetheless. Bringing Nacho away from his chest, he inspected him with some genuine interest, the scales that lined his body, his beady eyes, the emotionless line that was his mouth, unable to smile. Sometime in childhood, Braden remembered learning that all reptiles are cold-blooded, and passively decided that maybe himself and Nacho weren't too far off from each other. All his life he’s been told that he’s quiet, cold, contemplative. Intimidating. Not friendly, hyper and expressive, like Demir, who if he were any sort of animal he would probably be an annoying breed of dog that barks and plays fetch and drags its ass across the carpet, or something. He handed the lizard back over so Demir could put him back in his enclosure.
“This is crazy, man,” Demir said as Braden sat down on the side of the bed. “That you’re like, here.”
After securing Nacho, Demir walked over to his closet and procured two hoodies, one for himself and presumably one for Braden. He realized that his polo probably reeked of a day’s worth of sweat and party grime, and then felt a bit disgusting for having rested his back on Demir’s pillow like that. The acnepill is brutal. He sat up sharply and accepted the sweatshirt when it was held out for him.
“Cold?”
“Thanks.”
He tugged it over his head. Demir had a limited wardrobe consisting mostly of athletic shorts, his own merch t-shirts, and Bape hoodies. The kind with the signature camouflage-sort of pattern. Demir was pulling a red one over his head and the one he gave Braden was a greyscale version of the same design. So they were sort of matching. If anyone else were around to see it, it would be totally gay.
“So.” Demir tugged off his sweatpants, leaving himself in only boxers and the sweatshirt. Then, he crawled onto the bed and stretched himself next to Braden, with a few comfortable inches between them. “Tell me what happened, bro, what ails you?”