Robin:
The next morning, as we lay in bed together, we're both twitching to reach for our laptops. Not to check out our socials or see what Whispersong have been up to, but to work. Ew. Isn't it funny how the second things aren't perfect anymore we look for our excuses to run.
But my excuse hides right here in my bed with me. Jay's is different.
"I've been nominated for an award, for my work,"
"Yeah, me too, do you think it's because of…"
"Probably…"
"We'd have never earned it ourselves," we say together, in the most depressing, dull moment that we've had together. The fire of our love has been smothered by the avalanche of cold, hard, unforgiving reality. Jay's award is probably something incredible like "best person at ever being a person ever who is the best."
Mine is just "best blog article stats this year" and looking at it makes me want to weep. My prize is a $15 dollar coffee shop voucher. I'm even sadder to know people might want to win this award. I hope my pillow will swallow me up.
***
Jay:
I've been nominated for – and won – Financial Analyst of the Year. HG must have done this. There's no way this could have happened without him, and as I read the email letting me know of my unknown victory, I see that there's an invite attached and that it's to collect the award in person at one of London's smartest hotels.
Am I being privileged? Is privilege happening to me right now? I don't know, but there's zero mention of Whispersong, Little Leaves or my millions of social media followers so I guess I've legitimately earned it…right?
Robin will understand.
"I have to leave," I say.
"To collect your award. They emailed mine," is the sassy response that comes back, and I nearly point out how prestigious this is and how any idiot with a blog can get a fake internet award, but I don't. Instead, I stand straight and breathe heavily, my chest rising and falling as I make eye contact with Robin and wonder how the fuck I'm supposed to live this new life when I didn't even know how to live my own one.
As I turn tail and race out of the apartment, leaving a sad-looking Robin looking up from bed, eyes lit up by the light of a very different award receipt, I hear a tiny voice, the same way I felt a tiny hand last night. It just says "congratulations,".
***
Robin:
The phone is making that stupid fake ring noise, and I know it's trying to connect but I'd rather it seethed quietly like I do. I'm never too proud to ask for help, or be vulnerable in general, and that's why I wish Badger would PICK THE FUCK UP.
When nobody gives a shit about you and what you've achieved, you have to have that pride for yourself, and I feel like he'll get that. Jay can run off to an office full of adoring fans, but anyone that likes what I do lives behind a screen: I'm proud, but how can I really say that?
"Robin?" Badger says, as the video comes to life and reveals a tired-looking boy so different to the frontman we've come to know.
"Badger, I was hoping we could-"
"Yeah, I get it, it's alright Robin I can hear your Whispersong. You're doing everything right even though you feel invisible. It is only later people will see that you were running away from the edge instead of towards it like everyone else. You're a near-prophet."
"What's a near-prophet, Badger?"
"A disciple I guess." He says, with golden light in his irises.
"What if you're wrong," I ask him, and he admits he's almost always wrong, which is like super not reassuring.
"Are the challenges still happening, even without structure and instruction?" I ask him in vain.
"Yes Robin, every waking moment is challenge now. In fairness, you and Jay did such a beautiful job of envy. The whole world has a lot to learn from you."
"I miss you Badger," I confess.
"That's ok Robin. Hey, tell me, have you played the guitar we got you yet?" he asks.
"I haven't, but maybe now I can," I reply, with just the hint of a returning smile.
***
Jay:
There are thousands of people at this award show. Thousands. I'm wearing a great black suit that I rented on the way and most importantly none of these audience members seem to have understood that I'm Jay from the #WhispersongJay&Robintour.
Oh my word, a crushing realisation has just broken itself over my skull like a film prop bottle: the two and a half billion followers of Whispersong might be bots or fake in other ways.
The three thousand or so finance bods that sit in front of me around dozens of round tables are fully real. Robin would probably tell me about how hubristic I am being: I don't think I'm better than a God. I just think that I'm here right now – where are the gods?
The prize for winning this award is only £10,000 – can you believe that? I'm surrounded by immaculately-dressed, PhD educated quants who probably earn 250k a year but he we are offering them peanuts.
As I stand on the stage and collect the award from HG, who beams at me with a pride of his own, I think about what Robin would think of all this. I'm stood here gloating, comparing myself to the people I now see as less than me because they didn't win this award, even though they have so much more.
My life is empty and my pride has come before the fall. For the second time in as many nights, I'm going to have to seek forgiveness from Robin because I finally understand that wisdom is so much more important than knowledge.
Once I've disappeared from the award show, having forgiven both myself and the vacuous, vapid people interested in the award, I walk to Robin's door with trepidation.
The sound of a beautiful guitar echoes out from behind the door, and I stop for a moment to listen to it, proud of Robin rather than myself.
Before I knock once again, I lean towards the door and listen intently as lyrics come forth, and an immediate reaction is that I'm somehow responsible for encouraging this artistic streak by going to work and making the money, but I can't take credit for it at all.
I left Robin at home, who responded by being creative and beautiful and talented and strong.
Tonight, the door flies open, and I explode into Robin's arms, trying to drown another soul in love. There's not a hubristic bone in either of our bodies, and I convince Robin that we need to take a moment to share with our nearly 100-million combined subscribers that if you live in the past OR the future, you'll be doing a shite job at the present.
"Your suit is beautiful. It's black." Robin says, moving behind me as soon as I am fully in the little studio.
"I'm going to take it off, with my teeth," Robin whispers, and the breath of it carries a forgiveness I don't deserve because I've put myself first so many times. I don't know how to do anything else.
"When everyone thinks you're doing fine, you have to just be fine right?" Robin asks, knowing exactly what I'm feeling.
"Yeah, when did strength become a weakness?" I ask, only half expecting an answer.
"Nah it's just that when we're all predicating ourselves on being aggrieved in some way, how could we ever possibly be strong. It wouldn't suit our narrative of wanting refunds and companionship and shit."
"I wish I'd met you earlier, Robin," I say honestly.
"I don't think I was ready to meet someone like you, but then we met," Robin lies.
"Let's do a stream to our followers but also to the Whispersong audience tomorrow please Robin. It's not enough that we just do what we're doing. Let's show them that anyone can find the kind of love that we have by playing and exploring.
Well done on your own award by the way, will they put it on a coffee mug?"
"Fuck you!" Robin replies, hissing at me like a snake before telling me how important any recognition is for writers, and that it's time to go to bed.
As we wind down, for a moment I swear I can see the shade of Ferret crouched in the corner of Robin's studio, raising a finger to his lips like this will just be a secret for the two of us.
I'm probably over-tired, seeing things like this, but the long shadow of Whispersong is making itself felt even if they're not physically here, and I can feel their eyes and more on me, watching.
We get into bed together and before we're finished saying good night and that we love each other, sleep claims us both.