(no subject)
er. australian idol has eaten my brain.
(i am so evil.)
much love to jan for reading and advising and prodding. title courtesy of my current hanson obsession. i know the song doesn't actually fit, but i really, really needed a title.
Lost Without
feeling lonely and it seems to stay
He doesn't know when it settled in, this silence.
In between scripted lines and audience laughter, they're speechless and uncomfortable, limbs awkward as they manoeuvre microphones and cameras and stiff smiles. It itches; he feels it under his skin, prickly and wrong, and it doesn't go away even when James places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.
Maybe they've known each other too long.
The after party's a simple affair. Relatives and fans crowding backstage, and before he knows it, he's jostled out into the walkway as reporters fight for space. He's okay with it, though, used to it by now, because who cares about plain, dull Andrew G when there's baby-faced Anthony Callea and pretty, spunky Ricki-Lee? He leans in the doorway, hip out, a clean silhouette, and he's used to this too, posing and enjoying even when people aren't looking.
"Hey." Clean, sharp voice with just a hint of drawl and twang, and of course he knows that it's James, even before he turns around to tiptoe just a little and ruffle curly dark hair. "Not mingling?"
"Nah," he shrugs, deliberate self-consciousness slipping into his voice. "It's their night, you know? Let them have the spotlight."
"Yeah?" And there is a subtle warmth beside him, James sharing that same strip of wall and edging into just the right amount of personal space. Suffocation, really, as Andrew breathes in smokily congested air with just a whiff of too-strong Calvin Klein cologne and steps clumsily away.
"Yeah."
Maybe they don't know each other at all.
(i am so evil.)
much love to jan for reading and advising and prodding. title courtesy of my current hanson obsession. i know the song doesn't actually fit, but i really, really needed a title.
Lost Without
feeling lonely and it seems to stay
He doesn't know when it settled in, this silence.
In between scripted lines and audience laughter, they're speechless and uncomfortable, limbs awkward as they manoeuvre microphones and cameras and stiff smiles. It itches; he feels it under his skin, prickly and wrong, and it doesn't go away even when James places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.
Maybe they've known each other too long.
The after party's a simple affair. Relatives and fans crowding backstage, and before he knows it, he's jostled out into the walkway as reporters fight for space. He's okay with it, though, used to it by now, because who cares about plain, dull Andrew G when there's baby-faced Anthony Callea and pretty, spunky Ricki-Lee? He leans in the doorway, hip out, a clean silhouette, and he's used to this too, posing and enjoying even when people aren't looking.
"Hey." Clean, sharp voice with just a hint of drawl and twang, and of course he knows that it's James, even before he turns around to tiptoe just a little and ruffle curly dark hair. "Not mingling?"
"Nah," he shrugs, deliberate self-consciousness slipping into his voice. "It's their night, you know? Let them have the spotlight."
"Yeah?" And there is a subtle warmth beside him, James sharing that same strip of wall and edging into just the right amount of personal space. Suffocation, really, as Andrew breathes in smokily congested air with just a whiff of too-strong Calvin Klein cologne and steps clumsily away.
"Yeah."
Maybe they don't know each other at all.