Chapter Text
One could easily make the mistake of thinking Don Henley a taciturn sort of man, his raspy voice with that Cass County drawl like the aftertaste of potent mescal, an affectation he was sworn not to lose; he was perversely proud to be a Texan, even as it was synonymous with hick, he resided in the realm of refugees: geographical, spiritual, political, and emotional. He had the look of an existential cowboy: squinting at your query in blazing sunlight upon some empty mesa as the wind lassoed dust devils and tumbleweeds, but all his responses were hyperarticulate, eager to disprove any and all assumptions prompted by that twang like the slightest hint of pedal steel, lonely as teardrops, the sound of heartache and hangovers. His voice equal parts gravel and honey but then...he would sing. And the voice was remade as velvet, smooth and lush and decadently beautiful.
It was like finding flowers in Hell, for those in the inner circles in which his colleagues, bandmembers and friends spent their time, those glittering circles of Hell, they knew he was a devil of wit and self-awareness, even as whatever it was which made him charming and charmed was eroding faster than a sandcastle at high tide.
But this is not that story, not entirely. It’s a love story of fallen angels and the masks they wore to disguise their monstrous avarice...but not from each other.
Twin sons of Tinseltown, but only in attitude. Their roots had grown together and when they tried to pull apart, to move into their own spots to seek the sun, there was anguish and anger and regret, because they truly had merged, were reflecting the other’s strengths and at that point, in the distance where it all solidified, it was enduring as bedrock. It wavered like a heat mirage but when you got close enough to view it, it was all about subtle gestures and interwoven mindsets. Like harmony, their harmony, the way in which their voices called to one another, and still do. Everything else was less than the dream, and the dream held them in its glittering teeth, held them through long secretive nights and days which pained them to endure.
That is closer to the story, perhaps.
It was said they were abusive and dismissive and overbearing but the truth was somewhat more complicated. Even as they understood the needs of others - and understood women more than it showed - they truly didn’t care to understand anything better than themselves, until that understanding was worn away, revealing a dull patina underneath.
Like any relationship, the little things came between them.
And then one other thing.
But that is not this story. This story begins with a journey...and as the Bard once wrote: Journeys end in lovers meeting, every wise man’s son doth know.
The sun was very mild that day, as Spring was just a tentative idea in the mind of the city, and Glenn let it lie upon his face as he sat by the window, his soles reverberating with the sound of Jackson pounding out another passage to a song. Don was asleep upon the lumpy sofa in a ridiculous cardigan he’d pinched from J.D.’s latest girlfriend, claiming he looked better in it than she did. He curled like a cat, he could sleep almost anywhere, his face framed by half a halo of tight curls. Glenn closed his eyes, the light making everything hot red behind his eyelids. He tried to untangle the lines of sound washing up against his eardrums: the cars, the birds, a plane plummeting down to LAX, Jackson’s piano, an argument in Spanish down the street, and then the toiling of a bell from a nearby church. Those deep-set hang-dog eyes sprung open once more.
“C’mon, Texas,” he called out, bracing a foot against the sofa and giving it a shake. “We gotta go wake up Henry and Gary before the traffic gets nasty.”
“How many times have I said not to call me that?” Don rasped, turning over onto his back.
“Probably three hundred,” Glenn replied good-naturedly. He opened the fridge and took a sniff of the carton of milk within, then shook it. “Alright, who keeps drinking all my milk? How can a man have his Rice Krispies if there’s no goddamn milk?”
“Why don’t you eat Corn Flakes like a real man,” Don cracked, now upright and attempting to negotiate his hair as he looked for his shoes. “What d’ya do with my shoes, Frey?”
“I ate ‘em ‘cause there’s no goddamn milk for my Rice Krispies!”
“Son, don’t make me hurt you, gimme my shoes!”
“You couldn’t beat an egg in a tornado.”
“My 82-year-old Maw-Maw could whup your ass blindfolded, you shaggy idjit, now make yourself useful and -”
Glenn pulled Don’s boots out from under the chair he’d been sitting in. Don chuckled.
“‘Egg in a tornado,’ where, pray tell, did you pluck that nugget of metaphor from?”
Glenn puffed himself up with mock indignation. “My sainted mother, as a matter of fact.”
“However did she explain you to the neighbors.”
“The stork left me.”
“More like a vulture.”
“I tasted bad.”
“Rice Krispies with no goddamn milk.”
They were paralytic with laughter for a minute or two. Somehow they always knew the logic of their internal comedic meanderings.
“Well now boys,” their sloe-eyed sweetheart of the rodeo intoned, “so what’s doing? Set ‘em up, Billy,” Linda gestured to the bartender, and he poured a shot of Cuervo for each of them.
“Here’s to it, sweetness,” Don toasted. They all licked salt from their wrists and swallowed tequila in unison, slamming their glasses on the bar, letting out a Whoooo! Linda’s eyes were wide as she sucked her wedge of lime.
“We’re going out to shoot the cover,” Glenn explained.
“What, tonight?”
“No, not in the dark,” Don replied. “Just...gonna drive out there.”
“Out where?”
“A vision quest,” Glenn explained, waving his hands. “Gary wants it to be mythical.”
Linda tilted her head. “You mean go out in the desert and fast, or whatever? Like that?”
Don gave a shrug. “Uh, kinda. Peyote will be involved.”
Her expression turned cautious. “Y’all better take plenty of water, you hear? The desert doesn’t care what you’re doing, it’ll fry you just as fast any old way.”
“Yeah, but it’s March,” Glenn countered. “It’s still Winter.”
She shook her head. “Y’all are crazy, I just hope nobody falls off a rock or nothin.’”
“I’m worried about Bernie,” Don said, picking up his beer from the bar, but looked as though he’d changed his mind about drinking it. “Thinks he’s gonna find Gram wandering around out there or somethin.’”
“Did he go out there again?” Linda asked, twining a dark curl around an beringed index finger. “I thought he was in Topanga.”
“Who knows what the dude is doing, other than badmouthing us,” Glenn griped.
LInda’s eyes went wide again, and she looked from side-to-side. “Don’t start, Glenn,” she said quietly, placing a hand on his arm. “Monday’s always a mellow night.”
The three of them looked around at the denizens of the Troubadour.
“Goddamn it’s only eleven,” he exclaimed, looking at his watch. “Why are we waiting till closing time?”
“You gonna tell me you wanna walk around in the desert at 3am?” Don asked him.
“Y’all are crazy!” Linda reiterated.
Don tapped his hand on the bar just as yet another canyon cowboy was taking the stage for Hoot Night. “Billy, we need coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.”