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Milwaukee's
Best Disclaimer: Don't own them, don't know them, no money being made. With thanks to Kyla and Silvia for the betas. Notes: I know they wouldn't have been in Milwaukee at a time when the Calatrava was up and running, but give me a little room for artistic license, please. They lumber into Milwaukee on a rainy afternoon, cruising along I-90 on their way from Minneapolis, and Chris's mood, already foul, gets worse when they pass through the valley where all the breweries are. "What is that?!" Justin sniffs his nose in disgust. Chris throws a pillow at him. "Yeast, you ass. For the beer?" "Stinks." "Yeah, well, so do you," Chris scowls. "What the fuck is your problem, man?" Chris doesn't answer, just stalks to the back of the bus, flipping Justin off as he goes. He and Justin were supposed to go out, tour the Harley factory, but Brit had called, she had the afternoon off, and they were going to talk, and he didn't get that kind of time with her often, and Chris, you understand, right? Of course he did. Of course. It's not like he begrudges Justin his time with her, it's just. He hates this, when he's in moods like this, when he feels disconnected from them, not physically, but with hollow spaces in his head. Like there's a vast distance separating where he is and where the rest of them are. He feels completely alone, when he's like this. He goes to the Harley factory by himself. They have a good show, they always do, but afterwards, when Chris is usually ready to crash, he finds himself restless and discontent. He grabs a car and a bodyguard and heads out, cruising the city on his own. He does this sometimes, when the city suits him. Last one was Omaha, if he remembers correctly. Milwaukee reminds him of Pittsburgh, he thinks. Hard working people, blue collar town. His people, he thinks, and he didn't pay for them. He stops in a bar on the south side - West Allis, he thinks, and he only remembers that because the State Fairgrounds are across the street and there's a big sign posted at the entrance. He remembers when they played state fairs. It was awful. The bar's not really all that crowded, a mix of old-timers and younger guys who've probably just finished working the second shift. He remembers when his mom used to work the second shift. He didn't see much of her, because he had school during the day, and she usually stumbled home around two am and had a fit if he was waiting up for her. He always did, whether she liked it or not. He strikes up a conversation with a few of the guys at the bar, and gets roped into a couple games of pool. He can hold his own, thankfully, though this is more due to the spoils of the toy room than any time he logged in bars during the pre-band days. He figures the men he's playing with are roughly the same age as he is, although they look older. He might not have had the easiest of childhoods, but he knows he'll never have hands like these guys - like his mom's were - hard and calloused and a visual reference to a life he'll never have to make his own. He looks down at his own hands, flexing and unflexing, palms relatively smooth and free of lines, and wipes them self-consciously on his jeans. He'd borrowed some of Lance's lotion earlier. He hopes he doesn't smell like vanilla or anything. He wonders if these guys would kick his ass if they knew what he did. He thinks probably they would. He sighs, finishes his beer, says his goodbyes, and heads out the door. Maybe these used to be his people, but they aren't anymore. He's not drunk, but the bodyguard still won't let him get behind the wheel, so he climbs in the backseat, windows down, breathing in the smell of the city. They go through Miller Valley and the smell of yeast is so thick he practically chokes on it. He breathes deeply. Back at the hotel, he lets himself into his room, only half surprised to see a light on when he walks inside. Joey's curled up in a chair, reading, and Chris grunts a greeting at him, heading into the bathroom. When he comes out, the light's off, but Joey's still in the chair. Chris pulls off his jeans and climbs into bed. "Want to talk about it?" Joey's voice is surprisingly soft. "Not particularly." There's a sigh from across the room. "It's just," Chris stops, trying to figure out what to say. "Sometimes I wonder what business I have being here. Doing this. Living this life. I'm not supposed to be here." "Oh, Christ." Joey's not even bothering to hide his irritation, which Chris thinks is sort of unusual, given Joey's generally chipper attitude. "Dude. Get over yourself, okay?" Chris glares at him and rolls over, facing the wall. A moment later, the sheets rustle and Joey slides in behind him. "Look," Joey's voice is gentler now. "You don't needs slivers or cracked palms to show how hard you've worked. You've earned this. Everything you have you fought for. There was no silver platter or any shit like that. Whatever the hell is going through your head, forget about it." Chris rolls over, looking at Joey. "You don't understand." "Idiot." Joey's tone is affectionate. "Look, I know I didn't grow up like you did. I know I can't relate to that, but seriously, Kirkpatrick. I've known you for years. I know you. Stop feeling guilty for getting out." Chris nods slowly, some of the tension leaving his body. "It's nothing to be ashamed of," Joey leans closer, his mouth soft on Chris's. "It's not a bad thing. You deserve this. You deserve to be happy." Chris closes his eyes. As Joey moves over him, inside him, he remembers who he is. He knows where to call home. Milwaukee is different in the morning. The rain and clouds have blown across the lake, somewhere over Michigan by now, and he stands on the balcony of the hotel and watches the sailboats that dot the horizon. Joey comes up behind him, wraps him in his arms and rests his chin on his shoulder. "Come on, Chris," he says. "Let's see Milwaukee." Chris nods, and goes. They walk past the Schlitz Brewing Factory, or what remains of it, and Chris can't help but smile when Joey links arms with him and starts to sing off-key, "Schlemeel, schlemazel, Hasenfeffer Incorporated!" "Uh, Joey?" He raises an eyebrow. "Whatever, old man. I know you watched Laverne & Shirley. The Schlitz Factory? The beer that made Milwaukee famous?" "I thought that was Miller." "Oh, Jesus. You are neither a connoisseur of beer nor adequately up to snuff on your pop culture. Just for that, you're going to have to consume a six-pack of Milwaukee's Best while watching Nick at Nite reruns. I expect a 1000 word essay on the great eternal love between Lenny and Squiggy by tomorrow morning." "Asshole," Chris cuffs him affectionately. "You love me," Joey beams. "I do," Chris says, nodding softly. "I do." Joey insists they stop for frozen custard, which he's been addicted to since the first time they did a tour through the Midwest. In what is apparently a continuing mission to make Chris aware of Milwaukee's many notable contributions to the world of entertainment, they stop at Leon's. Joey informs him that Happy Days was based on this particular little spot, and Chris grins. "So, what? I'm supposed to write an essay about the sad and pathetic way in which Richie crushed on the Fonz now, too?" Joey smiles at him. "Extra credit?" The tightness in his chest loosens further. They meet up with the other three at the waterfront, on a secluded back balcony at the art museum. JC had raved on and on about a new addition by some guy - Calalalalala or something - and the museum officials had been more than happy to close off the area so they had room to actually enjoy themselves. It's midday anyway, so there aren't many people around. He has to admit, it's pretty spectacular, lines like a sailboat rising above the lake, and he smiles and nods as JC babbles on and on about it, winking at Joey as he catches his eye. He laughs when Justin jumps on his back, and staggers into Lance, who beams down at him, and suddenly, whatever lingering clouds there were inside him are gone, too, heading across Lake Michigan like the rain of the night before. Chris is swept along with the others as they head for the bus, everyone piling onto one for the short trip to Chicago. He watches them all settle in -- Justin and Lance hitting the Playstation and JC curled up, writing -- and smiles to himself, turning to see the city disappear behind them. He feels strong arms wrap around his, and leans back into Joey's warmth. "You good?" Joey asks, and Chris nods, resting against him These are his people, this is his work. Home, in Joey's arms. Home, on this bus, with these boys. So long, Milwaukee. ~fin~ For Allen, on her birthday.
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