Chapter Text
Chapter 1
“Thank you so much Dublin!” Ben yelled over the roaring, stomping crowd, before taking an exaggerated bow. “I am Ben Esperanza, and WE. ARE. INTENCIóN!”
Ben ripped off his black denim waistcoat, threw it into the still-wild crowd, then ran off the stage, which went dark. The rest of the band then departed after him. They were Jay Invierno on lead guitar, Aleena Verano on keyboards and back-up vocals and Franko Primavera on percussion.
“Right, band,” began Harry, the tour manager, and Ben’s close friend. “Ben’s doing the meet-and-greets with the competition winners and VIPs. Jay, Aleena, you’re free to head out. The car's waiting to take you back to the hotel.”
“But not me,” murmured Franko, running a hand through his waist-length, bright green and jet black curly hair. It was dank with sweat, as was his whole body; his neon green and silver jumpsuit was almost wet-through.
“Ben asked for you to wait for him and not go back to the hotel with the others,” Harry replied with disinterest. “He wants to head to the beach house for a couple of nights before the next gig.”
“Okay.” Franko sighed. “Why didn’t he just tell me himself? We are engaged, after all.”
“When did he have the time?” Harry snapped back. “He literally told me as he came off stage.”
“Fine. I’ll wait in his dressing room.”
“No!” Harry said quickly. “It’s a mess with flowers and toys from fans and shit. Just go to yours and he’ll come to you in like, half an hour.”
Franko nodded and turned on his heel to head towards the dressing rooms. He shared one with Jay while Aleena shared with the female backup singers. Only Ben got his own. He opened the door and saw that Aleena had left her beloved leather Filofax on the shelf beside her room, so he grabbed it and ran towards the stage door.
“Aleena!” he called, as he saw his bandmate about to leave. She was no longer dressed in her electric blue tunic and flares, with matching headwrap; instead she was wearing a simple black maxi dress and hijab. “Your Filofax.”
“Oh, thanks babe!” She leaned in and squeezed his hand. “Hope you get some rest at the beach house.”
“Me too,” Franko replied. “See you in a few days.”
Aleena waved goodbye and Franko turned back to his dressing room, but something made him go around the corner towards Ben’s.
“Oh, oh, yeah, baby,” Ben was mumbling. “Just like that. Such a tight little pussy.”
The faint sound of a bottom being slapped came through the closed door and Franko’s heart sank. Even though he had long accepted that his fiancé needed more sex than he could give him, hearing Ben with someone else still stung.
“Now you, darling,” Ben drawled, and there was the sound of shuffling. “I want to fuck your arse when I’m done with the pussy. Here, stretch yourself wide with this plug. Get ready for a ride.”
Shaking his head, Franko returned to his dressing room. He stripped off his jumpsuit and removed his emerald-green contact lenses before jumping in the shower. He watched as the thick make up and fake tan washed down the drain. He wished the bright green streaks in his hair would wash away too, but they were done with bleach and permanent colour so the green stood out.
He dried off, then changed into a comfortable pair of skinny jeans and oversized black knitted jumper. He sat down on the plastic-coated sofa to have a mug of tea and a bar of chocolate. Strong tea with fresh milk and Dairy Milk chocolate were the only two things he asked for in his rider, because wherever in the world INTENCIóN were, they were a comforting taste of home.
Ten minutes later, just as Franko was starting to doze, his dressing room door banged open and Ben stood there, waving a bottle of Jack Daniels.
“Ugh, I never can understand why you always drink tea after a gig,” he complained. “It’s so dull. Here.” He thrust the bottle in Franko’s direction. “Spice it up.”
Ben’s eyes were glassy and his nose was red. Franko winced internally. He hated it when Ben used drugs because it meant he would be an arsehole for days after.
“No thanks. You know how much alcohol affects me,” Franko replied. “If we’re going to the beach house then I want to go for a swim in the sea first thing, and I can’t if I’m in bed with a hangover.”
Ben opened his mouth to say something but voices down the hall made him stop.
“Let’s go then.”
Franko nodded, stood up and tied his hair into a bun before covering it up with a plain black baseball cap. Ben was still shirtless, wearing just his black leather trousers and boots.
The pair met their security detail at the stage door and then, in a well-practiced routine, Ben went out first, flanked by two guards, followed by Franko, Ben’s assistant Becky and another security guard. Ben waved and smiled at the crowd, blowing kisses and taking selfies with a couple of pre-selected fans. It was rare that fans stopped Franko for an autograph, and rarer still that he was recognised out of costume and with his hair covered. Ben was the frontman of the band, the showman, the star.
“Sorry, sorry, we have to go!” Ben called as they got into the limo. “Hope to see you at our gigs next week!”
The crowd squealed and cried, tapping on the roof of the limo as it pulled away.
“Holy shit, that was amazing!” Ben cried as he settled in his seat and took the tumbler of JD that Becky offered him. He knocked it back in one. “I fucking love Croke Park. I love Ireland!”
“You were amazing,” Becky breathed, tossing her bright purple wavy hair over one shoulder. “The early reviews are out and they’re glowing.”
“Well of course!” Ben replied smugly before holding out his glass for a refill. “What about the record company? Anything from them?”
“They’re pleased with the revenue and the reviews,” Becky began, “but they want to know when you’re going back into the recording studio.”
“When we have some decent tracks,” Ben grumbled, his mood flipping in a heartbeat. He nudged Franko in the chest with his elbow. “We’ll get writing this weekend, right Frank?”
Franko hated being called Frank, and Ben knew it.
“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Sure.”
“What’s up with you?” Ben snapped.
“Just tired,” Franko replied. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Ben raised an eyebrow, so Franko added hastily, “I’m not complaining. Just stating a fact.”
He hadn’t slept much because Ben was horny as hell after sniffing up snow from a new bag, and didn’t want to wait to track down a willing groupie. Franko knew better than to refuse Ben sex, so he let himself be fucked until four o’clock in the morning. They had then been at Croke Park for a soundcheck at nine.
“Right.” Ben turned back to Becky. “Book Electric Lady for the week after the tour ends. We’ll be in New York anyway.”
“Ben, Aleena’s flying back to London for her sister’s wedding straight after our last gig,” Franko reminded him.
“Well she’ll have to fucking miss it. We need to get the next album out.”
“Surely we can delay a few days, or book studio space in London?” Franko asked. “Abbey Road, RAK and Olympus Sound all have better acoustics than Electric Lady, in my opinion.”
“Well, I didn’t ask for your opinion, did I?” seethed Ben. “I want to record at Electric Lady!”
“I’ll book it in the morning,” Becky stated, narrowing her eyes slightly at Franko before smiling sweetly at Ben.
Franko nodded, knowing that any further argument was futile, and within forty minutes, they arrived at Tower Bay House, an ultra-modern house on a rocky outcropping near the villages of Donabate and Portrane, north of Dublin. Ben’s family had owned the land for several years but hadn’t done anything with it. However, when the band earned their first BRIT award, Ben decided he wanted a showstopper of a house that overlooked the wild Irish Sea.
Just fourteen weeks and several demands from Ben later, Tower Bay House was completed. Hello! Magazine came along to do an article and photoshoot about the build. There, in front of all the cameras and INTENCIóN’s ever-growing entourage, Ben had gotten down on one knee and proposed.
Franko had been surprised yet delighted at the time, but now, four years later, they were yet to set a date. He had asked Ben several times, but there was always a reason not to, and the more they waited, the more uncertain Franko became about the whole thing. But he couldn’t leave. The timing had to be right; Ben would never just let him leave, so Franko had to pick and choose exactly the perfect moment.
“I’m going to bed,” Franko announced as soon as they set foot in the hallway. “Are you staying up for a while, Ben?”
Ben looked between Franko and Becky.
“Yeah,” he replied after a long second. “I’ll sleep in a spare room. Get some rest. We have work to do in the morning.”
--
Franko woke up the next morning, his mouth dry. He stood up and stretched before looking at his phone. It was nearly eleven; he’d slept for ten hours. He changed into his custom-made hooded neoprene wetsuit, grabbed his goggles, dry robe and towel, then went downstairs. The house was eerily silent. Franko turned the coffee machine on and put two pieces of bread in the toaster, and then went to find Ben.
“Ben?” he called. “Becky?”
The downstairs was empty, but the car they used in Ireland, a black Lamborghini Estoque, was still in the garage, so Ben hadn’t driven anywhere. Becky’s rental car was gone though. He went upstairs, and after searching in all the rooms, found Ben in the one of the spare room ensuites, sprawled face down and naked on a bathmat, his head resting on a rolled-up towel.
“Oh Ben.” He crouched down and shook him lightly. “Ben? Wake up. Let’s get you into bed, okay?”
“Nooo,” Ben grumbled. “F-feck off.”
“You can’t be comfortable like that.”
“Fuck. Off!”
“Fine.”
Franko grabbed a bottle of water and a packet of paracetamol, placed them next to Ben and then returned to the kitchen. As he had his coffee and breakfast, he texted his sister, Tori.
F: Hey, how are you?
T: Okay? You?
T: Ben behaving himself? He seemed extra showy in the videos from last night.
F: He’s been okay. A bit snippy and did a bit too much snow and Jack last night, but otherwise fine.
T: No repeat of what happened in Buenos Aires?
Franko bristled.
F: No. That was just him coming off a bad trip.
T: A bad trip? You had to miss all the gigs in Argentina and Brazil because your face was fucking purple.
F: Look, I’m having a good morning. Can we change the subject? Buenos Aires was like, six months ago.
T: Fine, but you still have your emergency escape kit, right?
The last time Franko met his sister was in London, two months ago, just before they started the UK and Ireland leg of INTENCIóN’s ‘Mystery and Madness’ tour. Tori had given him a copy of Homer’s Odyssey; inside was a hidden compartment that held a wad of Euros, US dollars and British pounds, a prepaid international credit card, a passport in a fake name and a basic burner phone with a charger and small powerbank. Franko knew better than to ask where Tori had acquired the items; she was a ‘civil servant’ but Franko suspected that she worked for some secret government agency.
F: I still have it. I keep it in the hidden compartment in my backpack.
T: Good. Hope you are relaxing today.
F: Going for a swim in the sea, then Ben and I are going to write some tracks for the new album.
T: You mean that you’re going to write them and Ben’s going to change two words and claim he wrote most of it?
Franko sat back on his stool. Tori wasn’t wrong, but if he were to ask for sole credit for any track…? Well, Ben wouldn’t have that, and nobody at the label would dare question him anyway. Ben was the star of INTENCIóN, the charismatic reason the band achieved global success and fame. As far as the record company was concerned, he could do no wrong.
T: Never mind, forget I said anything.
T: Michael and I are heading to Mum and Dad’s for Sunday lunch. Pray for us. And salt. Pray for Dad to use salt.
F: Good luck. Don’t say hi from me, or Mum will probably disown you too.
T: She’s mellowed quite a lot since your blowout, but yeah, you’re still a sore topic. I’m sure she feels guilty that she doubted you.
F: All she has to do is say sorry. I forgave her and Dad years ago.
T: Yeah, she’s a way off that yet.
T: Got to go now. Love you Charles.
Franko’s heart swelled when Tori called him by his birth name; ever since the band was first launched internationally, everyone had called him by his stage name, even Ben.
F: Love you Tori.
–
The sea was a little rough, but Franko was a very experienced swimmer, and he navigated the currents expertly, body surfing occasionally when faced with a big swell. After an hour, the cold started to kick in and he swam back towards the house. Once out of the water he slipped on the dry robe and removed his wetsuit underneath it. Then he drank his flask of coffee as quickly as he could. Warmth seeped into his bones again and once he finished his hot drink, he made his way back to the house. In the mud room, he changed into the fleecy tracksuit he always kept there for post-swimming, and then ventured into the kitchen.
Broken glass littered the kitchen floor and the counters; the whole place smelled of bourbon. A Slipknot track was blasting out of all the speakers but Franko could hear Ben yelling over it in the living room.
“Well, fucking find him, Becky!” Ben was almost screeching. “What the fucking fuck do I even pay you for?!”
Ben ended the call and then threw his phone onto the sofa before turning around and spotting Franko.
“Hi,” Franko murmured. “How are—”
“Where the bloody hell have you been?” Ben yelled. “I woke up on the fucking bathroom floor!”
“You told me to leave you there. I tried to move you but—”
“You should have fucking tried harder!” Ben’s eyes were red with dark circles and he looked almost grey. “I look and feel like shit and that’s your fault!”
“And also the fault of the Jack Daniels, the coke and whatever else you took yesterday—”
Franko was silenced by a fast slap to his cheek. Shocked, he stepped back, and the ferocious look on Ben’s face made fear infiltrate every since cell in his body. He braced himself as Ben stepped towards him again, and fists landed on his side and his jaw.
--
“Well, you’re not going to be able to perform for the next week or so,” Ben said matter-of-factly as he emerged from the shower, freshly shaved and wearing a full face of make-up that made him look orange instead of grey. “Becky’s bringing over a load of groceries. You can stay here until you are functioning again, and rejoin the tour in Amsterdam in ten days. We managed to get Dan from You Me at Six to fill in for you, now that he’s at a loose end.”
“Yeah,” Franko croaked, his throat sore from both the punches and from sobbing in the aftermath.
Ben started changing into a billowy black satin shirt and a pair of skintight black suede jeans, commando. Franko pulled the duvet around him and hunkered down in the bed.
“I’m taking the Lambo into the city; you aren’t going anywhere so you don’t need a car, but if you run out of food, text Becky. I’ll be in the hotel but I don’t plan on being near my phone.” Ben spritzed himself liberally with one of his expensive Le Labo perfumes; he got mad if Franko ever used them. “Oh, and make sure you draft at least five tracks this week. I’ve told the label we’ll present them after the Amsterdam and Paris gigs.”
“’Kay.”
Becky arrived not long after, and Franko heard her chatting with Ben as she put groceries in the cupboard, fridge and freezer. Then, without saying goodbye, Becky and Ben left in their cars. New tears ran down Franko’s sore face and even though it was still light outside, he turned over and went to sleep.
--
It was howling winds that woke Franko up from his slumber. He pressed a button on the side table to raise the blinds, to see that the sky was dark grey. He checked his phone and realised that he’d slept for twelve hours and it was the next morning. There were no messages or missed calls; when INTENCIóN went from a little garage band in Kent to global superstars, Franko lost touch with most of his group of friends from school and university.
He read the band and crew group chat to catch up on what was happening with the tour. Even though Harry had sent a message saying that Franko was ill, not a single person had asked how he was, apart from Aleena who sent him a ‘get well soon’ e-card.
Slowly, tentatively, Franko got to his feet and walked over to the mirror. New tears spilled down his face as he took in his bruised and swollen face, neck and chest, the multitude of small cuts and grazes from Ben’s rings. Usually, when Ben hit him, it was just one or two slaps or punches, the result of which could be covered with make-up, so Franko could still perform. But not with this face. It was possibly even worse than Buenos Aires.
Franko’s tummy lurched and he suddenly felt dizzy with hunger and dehydration. He grabbed a bottle of Lucozade from the mini-fridge in the bedroom and downed it. A few minutes later, with the sugar kicking into his bloodstream, he made his way downstairs.
The kitchen had been cleaned up and it was almost as if nothing had happened, until Franko moved any part of his face. With his ability to chew compromised by the pain, he managed some tomato soup, a berry smoothie and some chocolate ice cream. The fridge was full of delicious luxury items like smoked salmon, expensive cheese, shiny berries and Wagyu burgers though. Franko felt a bolt of rage that he couldn’t eat any of it. Once upon a time, he had suffered with an eating disorder, and it had taken years of therapy to enjoy food. Nowadays, he loved good restaurants, cooking delicious meals and trying new dishes.
Anger, frustration and resentment burned through him and he stormed over to the nearest mirror, in the hallway. Seeing the cuts and bruises fuelled his rage. He picked up his phone and took pictures of every injury, every mark Ben had left on his body, both old and new. Then he called Tori. She picked up on the third ring.
“Hey, I’m at work, can I call you—”
“Buenos Aires,” Franko cut in. “But worse.”
“That fucker. Where is he now?”
Franko heard the sound of rustling and Tori walking to somewhere quieter.
“Central Dublin, staying at the hotel with the rest of the band and crew,” Franko replied. “The drummer from You Me At Six is taking over for the rest of the Dublin gigs this week while I stay at the beach house.”
“Please, please tell me that you’re finally going to leave,” Tori pleaded. “Please, Charles. You’ve endured this long enough”
Franko started to cry.
“W-will you come get me?” he asked. “I need you here so that I don’t chicken out.”
“Why would you chicken out?” Tori asked. “Charles. Charlie. You do not need to stay. He has hurt you so much. He takes advantage of you. He cheats on you. You don’t love him anymore.”
“Because without him and the band, what do I have to show for my life?” Franko cried. “The band is all I’ve known for ten years, and the first thing he’ll do if I try to leave is remind me of that relentlessly. I barely see my friends anymore, and the only family I can rely on is you.”
“Is there any way back from where you are now?” Tori asked in a quiet voice. When Franko didn’t answer, she added. “Or is this your way of saying that you do still love him after all?”
Franko sat down on the bench in the hallway and sighed.
“No.”
“No?”
“No, I don’t love him. I loved the person he was before the fame, when we messed around making music in the garage and kissed for hours. But that Ben doesn’t exist anymore.”
“Oh, Charlie.”
“Will you still come get me?” Franko asked in a small voice. “I know it’s a big ask but I need the support.”
“Yes. I can be on a flight to Dublin tonight.”
“No, it’s too soon. I can’t travel with a beat-up face; it’ll attract too much attention from the Gardai and airport staff,” Franko said. “Ben’s not going to come back here; I saw in the band group chat that he’s going to fly straight to Amsterdam after the last gig at Croke Park, and have some ‘chillout time’ before the European leg begins.”
“Code for get high and get off,” Tori scoffed. “When should I come?”
“I need three days for the swelling to go down enough that I can cover my bruises with makeup,” Franko replied. “So, Friday?”
“Okay, I’ll book the first flight out of Heathrow Friday morning, rent a car and come get you. Be ready because we’re not lingering. I’ll drive us straight back to the airport and we’ll be in London by teatime.”
“Thanks Tori.”
“Now take some photos of your face, like you did after Buenos Aires.”
“Already have.”
“Email them to me via BRITANN1A, then delete the photos off your phone.”
“Right. Okay, I’ll send the photos over now.”
--
Franko religiously applied ice packs, ibuprofen gel and arnica cream to his face for the next two days, and by Thursday lunchtime, he was looking much more like himself. He had packed his holdall and backpack, ready for Tori to pick him up. His jaw was no longer sore, so he was able to enjoy the nice food Becky had brought. He was feeling optimistic, despite all the uncertainties he was facing.
T: All set for tomorrow? Flight lands at 7am, so should be with you by 8ish depending on traffic.
F: Yep. Already packed. Just taking my clothes, make-up for my face and a few books. Oh and I might pinch Ben’s precious cologne collection.
T: Haha, good shout. What about your swim gear? You paid a bloody fortune for that bespoke wetsuit.
F: Yep, packed that too.
T: Good. Return flight is at 12 so there will be some sitting around. Can you do anything about your hair? They’ll make you take your cap off at security and you’ll be on Instagram within five minutes of walking into Dublin airport.
F: Good point. I will see what I can do.
Later that evening, Franko made his way to the bathroom and started searching for some hair dye to get rid of the green streaks, when the wind suddenly started to howl loudly. A moment later, rain started battering the windows of the house. Franko checked the weather app and was shocked to see a red weather warning.
RED WEATHER WARNING: Northern Ireland, County Louth, County Meath, County Dublin, County Wicklow and County Wexford
Storm Sebastian is expected to cause widespread disruption and damage to property from Thursday 4th September PM to Saturday 6th September AM along the East Irish and West of Scotland coastlines. Residents are generally advised to shelter in place. However those in beachfront or coastal properties should consider moving away from the coast where the highest degree of damage is expected, as soon as possible.
Fear rippled through Franko.
I only need to survive one more night in this place.
He ran around the house to secure the windows, which were now rattling. In fact the whole house was shaking in the gale force winds. Just as he was starting to panic, his phone rang.
“Tori.” The relief washed over him. “Have you seen the weather warnings?”
“Yeah, apparently the storm has come out of nowhere,” she replied. “Charles, they’ve cancelled all flights in and out of both Northern Ireland and the Republic until Sunday.”
“Shit. Shit! I was afraid of that!” Franko cried. “They also said that people in coastal properties should move away, but I’ve got no car and it’s miles to the nearest neighbour.”
A sudden crack startled Franko, and he turned to see one of the floor-to-ceiling windows shattering before his eyes.
“What the fuck was that?”
“A living room window just shattered!”
“Okay, you need to grab your essentials and get out of there, Charlie!” Tori’s voice was high and shrill. “You’re a good runner. Just run—”
Suddenly there was another sharp crack and screeching wind, and the phone started beeping.
“Tori? Tori!”
Franko looked at his phone. There was no signal. No WIFI. The lights were starting to flicker. Another window pane crumbled and the wind started to blow through the house.
“Oh my God, I’m going to die.”
And then Franko sat with that thought. If he died, there would be no more loneliness. No more pain. His life would no longer be dictated by Ben.
Except he didn’t want to die. Charlie didn’t want to die.
“No,” he said out loud. “I’m not going to die. But Franko is.”
And with that thought, Franko barrelled upstairs, grabbed his backpack and filled it with his essentials, then double-checked he had the emergency kit that Tori gave him. He then put on a woolly hat over a baseball cap and changed into the warmest, most waterproof outfit he could think of.
The last thing he did, on impulse, was to smash all of Ben’s precious Le Labo perfumes on the marble bathroom floor.
By the time Franko returned downstairs, all the windows had broken and the building was swaying. Without delaying any further, he shoved his backpack into his waterproof swimming float, and ran out of Tower Bay House, just as the roof blew off.
-cXc-