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It’s late. It’s impossibly late. You have to leave for work early tomorrow... Or today. You sigh, planting your elbows on the bar and your head in your hands. The nauseating air of alcohol makes your stomach turn, but you stoically stare at the barman until he notices you.

“Another whiskey please,” you order sternly. The guy looks at you for a second before slamming another shiny glass on the counter and filling it with whiskey. He’s probably wondering when you will finally leave. It’s a week day for God’s sake. He probably has kids he has to take care of early tomorrow. For once in your life, you don’t give a flying crap. You used to be the caring one, you smile at that thought, you used to be the one to keep everything afloat: work, family, money, life. A juggling act, is what you’ve often called it. A never ending juggling act.

A grimace crosses your face as you swallow the burning whiskey. It scorches your hopeless throat, but tonight, it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted in your life. You silently note that it’s one in the morning, five hours before you have to be on a flight to Nashville. Why Nashville, you wonder. Well, Nashville is as good a place as any, probably, but will it really bring you the inspiration the five of you so desperately need for this supposedly revolutionary album? Kevin has put all the blame in the form of an artist block, but you are still trying to figure out if a group of five individuals can collectively get an artist block at all.

And you’re not helping.

You swallow another sip of whiskey, swirling the small remainder around in the glass. You watch it go round and round, never ending, always driven by the force of your wrist. If only they could see you now. All those people, with all those opinions. You think about their staring, judging eyes as you finish your fifth (sixth?) glass of whiskey. They all know what’s best for you, and you are pretty sure that sitting at a dark, sleazy bar in the middle of the night is not high on the list.

You don’t give a flying crap.

“You can just admit it, you know?” A voice suddenly appears from behind you and you twist in your seat as you watch Nick Carter dropping down on a stool next to you, waving at the barman meaningfully. You stare at him for a while; there’s something strange about him, but you cannot really tell what it is.

“What?” you ask after a minute, remembering he asked you a cryptic question.

“That you don’t feel like going to work, like, at all,” Nick mumbles, accepting the beer that was placed in front of him.

“And you do?” you mutter before requesting another whiskey from the tired looking barman. The man looks at you funnily, his brow furrowed, but he turns around and pours another glass anyway.

“Sure I do,” Nick grunts, taking a swig like you’ve seen him do countless times before. “But it’s going slow as fuck,” he adds, “and you’re not helping.”

There it is. You nod silently and feel Nick’s gaze burning into the side of your head as he turns his body towards you. You take a huge sip of whiskey; pain firing through your throat as you feel your muscles tightening around your windpipe. It hurts like hell, but you down the rest of the whiskey after it anyway. “Are you done?” you whisper, wincing at the pathetic sound of your voice. Why does this always happen? What is Nick even doing here anyway? Didn’t he say he was going home like three hours ago? Home to his wife and baby? Away from the beer and bar?

“Just starting,” Nick counters, “Cause you know why we’re getting fuck all done with this album cycle, don’t you?”

You ignore him and the tightening feeling in your throat. You are not going to panic tonight in this stupid bar; not especially if Nick’s there to see it. You don’t want to talk about this shit, not with him. This is your shit and he has no right. You shake your head and shrug, knowingly aggravating the guy next to you even more. He leans forward, his face almost right in yours. “It’s because you are holding us back, Brian,” he mumbles and your throat closes up completely.

How could he?

You try to remember how to breathe properly and your hand tightens around your nearly empty glass. You nod tightly at the barman and he pours you another drink questioningly. You don’t dare look at Nick, but you can smell the alcohol on his breath, that’s how close he is sitting. He hates you, deeply and forever. You ruined his career; you are ruining all their careers. You build them up, and now you are tearing them down. “Don’t talk to me that way,” you whisper, as it’s the most sound you can muster right now.

“I’ll talk to you however I want to talk to you,” Nick fires, his face twisting in anger. His eyes are bloodshot and glassy and you know that the alcohol is functioning at high levels. You hope he keeps the peace, but know that he has a reputation for doing stupid things when he’s drunk. He licks his lips and shakes his head in disappointment as he takes another beer from the barman. “For crying out loud, dude, when will you finally admit it to yourself? Cause it’s really pathetic, you know?”

You know what he means and you close your eyes for a moment to gather your composure. He’s a dick, you conclude, emptying your glass. Your silence does not seem to stop him, and he turns a little more your way, pointing a finger sharply in your direction, “It’s because of you we can never be what we were again,” he says; no amount of regret or hesitation in his eyes. “You already know the truth, but you are too proud to ever admit it, aren’t you?” he taunts.

You shrug again, but feel your stomach turning nauseatingly. “Do you want me to say it?” you mumble, not looking at him.

“You don’t have to,” Nick sneers, “We all know it. We all know you can’t fix it. It doesn’t matter how much you lie about it, cause we are not stupid. Your fucking pride is ruining us all.”

You clench your jaw, watching your glass being refilled with golden whiskey. “You have no idea-,” you say slowly.

“Yeah, because you never talk about it,” Nick interrupts, “You keep telling yourself that nobody knows what it’s like, that nobody will ever know. That we are all a bunch of pushy assholes that cannot help you in any way. But you know what? It’s been long enough, Brian. Are you going to keep lying to us and yourself like you’ve done for the past five years?”

You want to cry, scream and cry and punch that dick in the face. But you do not do any of those things. Instead you sit rooted to your spot at the bar. The drink has stopped swirling, you notice. You hate him for what he said, but you know he’s right. You cannot fix it. How pathetic is it that you cannot fix yourself? It’s even gotten worse these past few months and you have no idea why. It is times like these that you wonder why you keep trying, why you keep fighting. Maybe it is for the small victory of a good performance amidst a dozen bad ones. Or are you just going through the motions, doing what you’ve always done, because what else is there?

And Nick should know how it feels to have to fix yourself in the middle of a work cycle. But at least Nick was able to do it. You? You don’t have a fighting chance in hell anymore, if you ever did. Nick is silent now, his angry face taking another sip of his beer. You notice he looks younger than he should and it strikes you as odd. You shiver when you realize what the years have done to him. The promise of a young boy at the beginning of his journey has turned into this screwed up individual that hates your guts. You remember the time the two of you were inseparable only vaguely, it’s been so long. Sure, every now and then he still challenges you to a basketball match, but you suspect he only does that to distract you from everything else. You ruined him. Well, not you, per se, but you didn’t stop it either. He has been through hell multiple times in his life and you just at one point stopped dragging him out. He was counting on you, and you let him down.

He hates you, deeply and forever.

But you cannot hate him back, not now, not ever. He is your brother, no matter what you’ve told yourself. You’ve practically raised him in those days that his parents weren’t around to screw him up. You have shown him what it was like to have people that cared about him, that were worried about him, but in the end, it didn’t matter. And then you just sort of... gave up. You have half a mind to apologize, but you keep your mouth shut. Nick rubs a lazy palm into his bloodshot eyes and sighs deeply. “I know what you’re trying to do, though,” he mumbles, not looking at you. “You keep telling everyone that it’s just your job. That you are so much more than a pop singer. That it’s not that important to you. But tell me, Brian; how long have you been in this band?”

An icy feeling of fear spreads in your guts and you nearly choke on your whiskey. Nick’s words are bold and at the same time, so tremendously truthful that they almost physically hurt. You take a deep breath as you realize that this band is all you know; no matter how much you’ve lived outside of it, you would always come running straight back. Sure, you’ve thought about quitting before; quite a few times actually. When you had to have surgery and everything was scary and you didn’t get the support you hoped for. When you and the other boys were at each other’s throat continuously. When your son was born and the band was down. When your voice just up and stopped working completely one summer. Any progress that you had made before was lost and it would continue to be like that for God knows how long. Breaks didn’t work, continuously touring didn’t work. Therapy wasn’t a reliable remedy anymore and yoga and meditation just make you feel even more awkward.

Nothing really worked.

If there was only that one thing, no matter what it was, no matter how horrible, that would fix your voice, guaranteed, you’d do it. No questions asked. That’s how desperate you’ve become. And Nick knows it. And he rubs it in your face and smacks you over the head with it constantly. Why is he doing this, you wonder as you start feeling smaller and smaller under Nicks incessant stare. Why is he so intent on making you feel like absolute shit this late at night? What the hell is his problem?

You are his problem, apparently. Your voice makes him frustrated and impatient and angry, but he doesn’t realize that it is your voice; not his, not the group’s, only yours. Somewhere along the lines, he and you both must have forgotten that. A voice is so deeply personal, such a big part of your identity that for the last five years you’ve been trying to figure out what you are without it. And lately you’ve come to the terrifying conclusion that you don’t have a back-up plan. You’ve foolishly always believed that no matter what would happen, you would always have the God given blessing of your voice.

And then God smiled sadistically and took it away.

And now you don’t know what to do. Now you are stuck in the same loop as you have been for five years, endlessly trying and endlessly failing. You remember AJ patting you on the back after almost every performance, telling you that you sounded amazing that night, despite the fact that the both of you knew that it wasn’t true. AJ pities you. AJ. Pities. You. In fact, almost everyone you meet now that knows about the problem pities you. They all have that look of compassion, they all are feeling so horribly sorry for you. Your band mates, your producers, your fans, your family... even your son. You should have never put it in the movie, it’s only made things worse.

You feel like throwing up as you look at the small amount of whiskey that’s left in your glass. Disgusted, you push it away; tensing as you hear the thunder rumble outside. It’s raining for the first time in weeks and you wonder if it would be weird if you just walked outside to get completely soaked. You cannot wash away your problems, but God, wouldn’t it feel good?

“You know, truth be told,” Nick starts again. You have kind of forgotten he was there, but now that you look at him, he looks even more out of place than he did before. There’s something not right, but you can’t put your finger on it. Something about his hair, his face, his eyes. “Me and the others have been talking.”

You know about that. You’ve seen them muttering behind your back. You’ve felt the tense silences whenever you walk into the room and their conversation immediately halts. They must be talking about you quite a lot.

“We don’t say anything, because we are grateful for what you did for the group, but you must already know we rather you just quit.”

Your heart breaks and falls as Nick confirms every single doubt, every single fear you’ve had. They don’t want you anymore. You’ve done your best, now you can go. You are the weakest link, goodbye. And you know it’s not fair to them. It’s not fair that you cannot take your responsibility and just leave so that they can be better off. You stare back at Nick. No. Not Nick. Not Now-Nick anyway. Now-Nick is at home with his new family and you suppose he’s happy. The Nick across from you reminds you of the one that was wasted every single night. His bloodshot eyes are younger and his stubborn, fierce gaze is that of the one that wouldn’t listen to a single word you’ve said to him. It is the Nick that was in way over his head; that could not get himself back on track, whatever he may have tried.

And somehow, he did.

You blink, and he’s gone.

He’s happy now. He’s got a new baby, a successful solo record and a wife that loves him unconditionally and his voice is better than it’s ever been. You’ve often told yourself that he doesn’t know what it’s like to be in your place; And you are right. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be this weak. To try and fail and continue like that over and over again, despite knowing it will never get better. You are not a hero for not giving up; you are a hopeless, broken little man that keeps repeating the same action, while knowing it will never work.

Broken Brian.

You smile darkly as you get up from your place at the bar, stretching tiredly. The thunder storm outside is relentless and you don’t care as you walk out of the bar on shaky legs. The rain splashes against your face from the side and the wind messes with your hair and within a minute, you are soaked to the bone. And you don’t care. You keep walking, not hailing a taxi, just putting one foot in front of the other. The juggling act has ended, you decide.

You’ll take your final bow soon.