Forgetting You In A Cabaret [8/12] Part 2
Jon takes Spencer out for coffee after everyone else has left because Michael won’t let them bring caffeine in the studio anymore in case Tom drinks it. He has about an hour before he has to get back to work on his book but he’s a little reluctant to; his intentions for the storyline and his loyalty to a friend conflict. His publishers are waiting on a first draft that he is hurriedly trying to complete with a string of fumbling words and mismatched phrases that don’t exactly ring of meticulous attention. It’s too late to even consider scrapping the story this far into it.
Spencer navigates him across the road to the nearest Starbucks, and finds a table that he deems suitable, while Jon orders the drinks and pays for them. The smell of coffee intoxicates the air, the chug of machines sounding out the work being done. While he waits for the drinks, he admires that abstract pictures hanging on the walls but can’t work out what they are supposed to be. At least the bright colours can be appreciated, even if the shapes are unrecognisable.
When the barista drops the drinks in front of his he takes them, uttering his thanks quickly. The warmth from the mugs seeps through his fingertips, heating them up and loosening them after hours of compulsively writing stunted sentences that are for the most part incoherent.
He manoeuvres his way through the people lined up waiting for their orders to be taken, back to where Spencer had seated himself by the window. Across from Spencer is an unhappy Ryan, looking a lot more dishevelled than his usually well-groomed self. Jon takes the vacant wooden seat, its frame creaking softly underneath him, handing Spencer his mug with an indulgent smile.
Spencer’s mouth twitches up, his blue eyes glowing as his slender fingers curl around to clasp the handle of his mug. Underneath the table his hand brushes Jon’s thigh suggestively, resting just above the knee. Jon almost chokes on the coffee in his mouth, but manages to hold onto his dignity, only coughing slightly, his cheeks reddening infectiously.
“He won’t return my calls,” Ryan says sadly, and suddenly Spencer’s attention turns back to his best friend, and his hand leaves Jon’s leg regretfully.
“Maybe he’s just been busy”.
Ryan shakes his head as if the idea is ludicrous, his eyes downcast as if the solution to all his troubles is pasted onto the table top. The scarf around his neck is tied in a lose bow, the frayed ends ghosting along his collarbone like brambles. His eyes keep moving to the phone sitting on the table top as if staring hopefully at it will do him any good; he looks a little lost, with child-like desperation coating his face like flaking paint. Someone should tell him that watched pots never boil. “I’m not stupid Spin. You don’t have to placate me. If he isn’t interested anymore I can handle it. I’m fine”.
“I don’t think you are,” Spencer argues, leaning across the table in a subconscious act to force Ryan to see his point of view. Jon has never seen Ryan and Spencer in dispute before. It’s weird and unfamiliar. Seeing Ryan with such a low opinion of himself, without the façade he wears to make the word think he just doesn’t care is unsettling in Jon’s eyes. He’s never seen Spencer try to make Ryan believe that he is worth something before; he never thought the great Ryan Ross felt anything less than superior and invincible. “He cares about you Ryan. Don’t give up yet. I’m sure there’s a good explanation.”
Golden brown eyes dart to look out the window, zoning in on the city traffic, the angry drivers and the scuttling pedestrians. Ryan keeps his eyes fixed there, his face angled carefully so that his hair screens his expression, but Jon can still spot the thickening film of water glazing over his ochre orbs. Ryan says, his voice thick with all the things he doesn’t want to say, “Somehow I don’t think there is”.
*
“If you keep on looking at me with that cheesy grin, I will slap it off your face,” Tom growls, keeping his gaze transfixed on the series of final shots he just edited. Without looking in the direction of the irritating musician he can tell that Michael is still smirking with an air of self-satisfied pleasure. He doesn’t need Michael distracting him from his work when he actually has a lot to do right now. The angry clicks of his cursor are the only sound that fills the room, but he refuses to initiate any pointless chit chat with Michael; he has no interest in anything Michael has to say. The silence is welcomed after a hectic day of angry designers, and a handful of haughty models. Sometimes being told that you have no artistic integrity and that you’re setting everything up all wrong is more than a little annoying, especially when the person shouting at you doesn’t even know how to take a picture.
Michael laughs from where he sits, still lounging around on Tom’s customer only couch. He’s actually making the room untidy with his un-ironed shirt and scruffy shoes. When Tom had taken him to his first photo shoot of the afternoon (not by his own choice) one of the make-up artists had asked him if the Australian was a hobo. Naturally, Tom replied that he was, and that as a charitable member of society he was now helping the homeless centre.
“Admit it, you like me watching you work,” Michael says, his tone filled mainly with good-humour but also a little curiosity.
“I like being left alone to do my job,” Tom snaps back, tilting his head to the side as he contemplates the image on his computer screen. The lighting isn’t quite right. He clicks his mouse a couple of times until he is happy with the result before moving onto the next one.
Only a couple hundred more to do; he can probably finish most of them when he can’t sleep tonight.
Suddenly Michael’s hand is covering his on the cursor, heat radiating off his skin onto Tom’s. Michael leads Tom’s limp fingers away from the mouse, pulling him to his feet in one gentle movement. This isn’t like the other five thousands times when Michael has grabbed his wrist and pulled him to some concert, or taken him away from his work just to annoy him. This time Michael intertwines there fingers so that they fold together perfectly, like the creased paper of an origami heart. This time it’s more of a silent question, saturated with intentions that Tom isn’t sure of.
The pulse thrumming in Tom’s veins trills out like the beating words of a hummingbird, throbbing in his wrist like a base drum. The index finger of Michael’s right hand swipes over his pulse point, calloused and rough over the smooth skin of Tom’s inner arm as he leads him through the studio into the living area.
Tom’s feet falter as they reach the door to his bedroom, sensing that whether or not he goes through it is a much bigger deal than it usually is. His mind is working on overload. As if sensing the hesitation, Michael turns to look at him, encouraging him to move forward with pleading eyes.
“You need to take a break,” Michael tells him softly, his voice sounding alien without the edge of mocking it usually bears. “Stop thinking for once Tom”.
He isn’t sure how they end up on his bed, amongst the sheets he never tied up in the morning. All he knows is that he can feel the heat of Michael’s body spreading all over him, can feel the weight of Michael’s thigh as it prises itself between his legs, coaxing itself in until it’s pressing against the outline of Tom’s dick, that he didn’t even know had grown hard.
The room is dark, the drapes closed. They had shut the door as they tumbled in, sealing off the rest of the world, because whatever this means it only exists within the four walls they are surrounded by for now.
Michael reaches out to pull Tom’s shirt over his head, and he complies willingly, his body becoming pliant under the musician’s rough hands. The sound of his shirt falling to the floor fills the darkened room, and Tom only momentarily panics about the dangers of tripping over the garment when vacating the bed in the future. His head tilts back into the pillows as Michael travels the distance of his torso with fevered kisses, like every stretch of skin is a valley and a view that has to be appreciated, and suddenly he forgets how to think. It’s as if his brain has short-circuited, his fuse melted from the high voltage pulsing through his veins like electricity. All he can seem to process is how much he needs, and wants.
His mouth seeks out Michael’s hungrily, is tongue darting out to open the seam Michael’s lips, and he parts them willingly. There tongues meet in the middle, finding a chaotic rhythm that is far from tender, and every bit dirty.
Tom pulls at his own belt, snapping it open in a hormonal frenzy. He knows Michael catches onto his idea because he starts to shed his own clothes, slipping off his shirt in one stroke before moving onto his jeans with little hesitation.
When they are both down to there boxers, panting in the dark, Michael reaches over to the draw beside Tom’s bed and pulls out some lube and a condom. He holds them up in question, as if Tom is about to back out of the situation now, but when the silent query is met with no reluctance he sets them down on the bed, and pulls Tom into another heat-flared kiss.
Except. “Have you been going through my stuff?”
Michael chuckles into the electrified air around them, his hand searching for the lube before snapping the bottle open with one hand. His eyes are unreadable in the blackness but Tom doesn’t dwell on it.
Then the door slams shut. Jon’s voice echoes through the studio, calling out both Michael and Tom’s names in turn. Tom’s eyes dart panicked and doe-like to look up at Michael but neither move, as if keeping completely still will somehow make them invisible, or prevent Jon from seeing them if he comes into the room.
“Say something,” Michael hisses quietly, his gaze flickering to the door with a shadow of anxiety.
“I’m in here,” Tom called out, hoping his voice would reach Jon through the closed door. “I’m kind of busy though”.
He hears Jon’s muffled apologies, and the sound of his feet moving away, echoing eerily as he moves to exit the studio, masked slightly by the sound of Michael’s smothered laughs as he shakes on the bed. Tom punches him, before rolling his face into the pillows, hoping to suffocate in the soft material. Could his life get any worse?
*
It’s 8 o’clock when Brendon turns up at Camisado, just before they open for the night. Ryan had been helping Gabe to set up the tables, and organise the bar because Gabe is incapable of doing anything on his own, but he freezes when Brendon pushes in through the door, looking like a dog that just got kicked in the chest.
He waits, his chest constricting in a painful way it never had before Brendon turned up, while Brendon artfully weaves his way through the dancers stretching, and preparing for the night’s show, eyes downcast like he can’t bring himself to look Ryan in the eye. Ryan thinks it’s a bad thing.
When Brendon finally reaches him, he leads him away into one of the booths far from prying ears and inquisitive stares, because he has a feeling this isn’t going to end well, and the last thing he wants is to have his heart-broken when people are watching. The curtain falls shut behind them, hiding them from the view of everyone else.
Ryan casts a glance at Brendon’s face, and seeing the undiluted misery there decides that the conversation will be a lot easier if he keeps his eyes fixed on the red-painted walls surrounding them. He’s glad he chose to stand in the shadows, because he doesn’t want Brendon to see any of the motions he is struggling to hold on to. The palms of his hands are clammy with cold-sweat, drenched in fear, and waiting for the inevitable that’s about to slap him right across the face.
“I’m sorry,” Brendon whispers finally, and it sounds exactly like he thought it would; goodbye.
The words sink in like knives, but Ryan takes them without letting anything break the surface of his calm exterior. He breathes evenly through his nose, fighting against his lungs because they don’t want air. His feet move past Brendon’s immobile body towards the curtain.
He says, “Yeah, me too”, before the curtain falls over Brendon’s hunched frame.
This is epically late again, but I've hit a very busy time of year with school work and I've had loads of coursework to do, and this chapters pretty crappy. I admit this took the back seat for a while, and my writing's kind of suffered because I don't have the energy to come up with any of the metaphors I usually do. Anywho enjoy.
Spencer navigates him across the road to the nearest Starbucks, and finds a table that he deems suitable, while Jon orders the drinks and pays for them. The smell of coffee intoxicates the air, the chug of machines sounding out the work being done. While he waits for the drinks, he admires that abstract pictures hanging on the walls but can’t work out what they are supposed to be. At least the bright colours can be appreciated, even if the shapes are unrecognisable.
When the barista drops the drinks in front of his he takes them, uttering his thanks quickly. The warmth from the mugs seeps through his fingertips, heating them up and loosening them after hours of compulsively writing stunted sentences that are for the most part incoherent.
He manoeuvres his way through the people lined up waiting for their orders to be taken, back to where Spencer had seated himself by the window. Across from Spencer is an unhappy Ryan, looking a lot more dishevelled than his usually well-groomed self. Jon takes the vacant wooden seat, its frame creaking softly underneath him, handing Spencer his mug with an indulgent smile.
Spencer’s mouth twitches up, his blue eyes glowing as his slender fingers curl around to clasp the handle of his mug. Underneath the table his hand brushes Jon’s thigh suggestively, resting just above the knee. Jon almost chokes on the coffee in his mouth, but manages to hold onto his dignity, only coughing slightly, his cheeks reddening infectiously.
“He won’t return my calls,” Ryan says sadly, and suddenly Spencer’s attention turns back to his best friend, and his hand leaves Jon’s leg regretfully.
“Maybe he’s just been busy”.
Ryan shakes his head as if the idea is ludicrous, his eyes downcast as if the solution to all his troubles is pasted onto the table top. The scarf around his neck is tied in a lose bow, the frayed ends ghosting along his collarbone like brambles. His eyes keep moving to the phone sitting on the table top as if staring hopefully at it will do him any good; he looks a little lost, with child-like desperation coating his face like flaking paint. Someone should tell him that watched pots never boil. “I’m not stupid Spin. You don’t have to placate me. If he isn’t interested anymore I can handle it. I’m fine”.
“I don’t think you are,” Spencer argues, leaning across the table in a subconscious act to force Ryan to see his point of view. Jon has never seen Ryan and Spencer in dispute before. It’s weird and unfamiliar. Seeing Ryan with such a low opinion of himself, without the façade he wears to make the word think he just doesn’t care is unsettling in Jon’s eyes. He’s never seen Spencer try to make Ryan believe that he is worth something before; he never thought the great Ryan Ross felt anything less than superior and invincible. “He cares about you Ryan. Don’t give up yet. I’m sure there’s a good explanation.”
Golden brown eyes dart to look out the window, zoning in on the city traffic, the angry drivers and the scuttling pedestrians. Ryan keeps his eyes fixed there, his face angled carefully so that his hair screens his expression, but Jon can still spot the thickening film of water glazing over his ochre orbs. Ryan says, his voice thick with all the things he doesn’t want to say, “Somehow I don’t think there is”.
*
“If you keep on looking at me with that cheesy grin, I will slap it off your face,” Tom growls, keeping his gaze transfixed on the series of final shots he just edited. Without looking in the direction of the irritating musician he can tell that Michael is still smirking with an air of self-satisfied pleasure. He doesn’t need Michael distracting him from his work when he actually has a lot to do right now. The angry clicks of his cursor are the only sound that fills the room, but he refuses to initiate any pointless chit chat with Michael; he has no interest in anything Michael has to say. The silence is welcomed after a hectic day of angry designers, and a handful of haughty models. Sometimes being told that you have no artistic integrity and that you’re setting everything up all wrong is more than a little annoying, especially when the person shouting at you doesn’t even know how to take a picture.
Michael laughs from where he sits, still lounging around on Tom’s customer only couch. He’s actually making the room untidy with his un-ironed shirt and scruffy shoes. When Tom had taken him to his first photo shoot of the afternoon (not by his own choice) one of the make-up artists had asked him if the Australian was a hobo. Naturally, Tom replied that he was, and that as a charitable member of society he was now helping the homeless centre.
“Admit it, you like me watching you work,” Michael says, his tone filled mainly with good-humour but also a little curiosity.
“I like being left alone to do my job,” Tom snaps back, tilting his head to the side as he contemplates the image on his computer screen. The lighting isn’t quite right. He clicks his mouse a couple of times until he is happy with the result before moving onto the next one.
Only a couple hundred more to do; he can probably finish most of them when he can’t sleep tonight.
Suddenly Michael’s hand is covering his on the cursor, heat radiating off his skin onto Tom’s. Michael leads Tom’s limp fingers away from the mouse, pulling him to his feet in one gentle movement. This isn’t like the other five thousands times when Michael has grabbed his wrist and pulled him to some concert, or taken him away from his work just to annoy him. This time Michael intertwines there fingers so that they fold together perfectly, like the creased paper of an origami heart. This time it’s more of a silent question, saturated with intentions that Tom isn’t sure of.
The pulse thrumming in Tom’s veins trills out like the beating words of a hummingbird, throbbing in his wrist like a base drum. The index finger of Michael’s right hand swipes over his pulse point, calloused and rough over the smooth skin of Tom’s inner arm as he leads him through the studio into the living area.
Tom’s feet falter as they reach the door to his bedroom, sensing that whether or not he goes through it is a much bigger deal than it usually is. His mind is working on overload. As if sensing the hesitation, Michael turns to look at him, encouraging him to move forward with pleading eyes.
“You need to take a break,” Michael tells him softly, his voice sounding alien without the edge of mocking it usually bears. “Stop thinking for once Tom”.
He isn’t sure how they end up on his bed, amongst the sheets he never tied up in the morning. All he knows is that he can feel the heat of Michael’s body spreading all over him, can feel the weight of Michael’s thigh as it prises itself between his legs, coaxing itself in until it’s pressing against the outline of Tom’s dick, that he didn’t even know had grown hard.
The room is dark, the drapes closed. They had shut the door as they tumbled in, sealing off the rest of the world, because whatever this means it only exists within the four walls they are surrounded by for now.
Michael reaches out to pull Tom’s shirt over his head, and he complies willingly, his body becoming pliant under the musician’s rough hands. The sound of his shirt falling to the floor fills the darkened room, and Tom only momentarily panics about the dangers of tripping over the garment when vacating the bed in the future. His head tilts back into the pillows as Michael travels the distance of his torso with fevered kisses, like every stretch of skin is a valley and a view that has to be appreciated, and suddenly he forgets how to think. It’s as if his brain has short-circuited, his fuse melted from the high voltage pulsing through his veins like electricity. All he can seem to process is how much he needs, and wants.
His mouth seeks out Michael’s hungrily, is tongue darting out to open the seam Michael’s lips, and he parts them willingly. There tongues meet in the middle, finding a chaotic rhythm that is far from tender, and every bit dirty.
Tom pulls at his own belt, snapping it open in a hormonal frenzy. He knows Michael catches onto his idea because he starts to shed his own clothes, slipping off his shirt in one stroke before moving onto his jeans with little hesitation.
When they are both down to there boxers, panting in the dark, Michael reaches over to the draw beside Tom’s bed and pulls out some lube and a condom. He holds them up in question, as if Tom is about to back out of the situation now, but when the silent query is met with no reluctance he sets them down on the bed, and pulls Tom into another heat-flared kiss.
Except. “Have you been going through my stuff?”
Michael chuckles into the electrified air around them, his hand searching for the lube before snapping the bottle open with one hand. His eyes are unreadable in the blackness but Tom doesn’t dwell on it.
Then the door slams shut. Jon’s voice echoes through the studio, calling out both Michael and Tom’s names in turn. Tom’s eyes dart panicked and doe-like to look up at Michael but neither move, as if keeping completely still will somehow make them invisible, or prevent Jon from seeing them if he comes into the room.
“Say something,” Michael hisses quietly, his gaze flickering to the door with a shadow of anxiety.
“I’m in here,” Tom called out, hoping his voice would reach Jon through the closed door. “I’m kind of busy though”.
He hears Jon’s muffled apologies, and the sound of his feet moving away, echoing eerily as he moves to exit the studio, masked slightly by the sound of Michael’s smothered laughs as he shakes on the bed. Tom punches him, before rolling his face into the pillows, hoping to suffocate in the soft material. Could his life get any worse?
*
It’s 8 o’clock when Brendon turns up at Camisado, just before they open for the night. Ryan had been helping Gabe to set up the tables, and organise the bar because Gabe is incapable of doing anything on his own, but he freezes when Brendon pushes in through the door, looking like a dog that just got kicked in the chest.
He waits, his chest constricting in a painful way it never had before Brendon turned up, while Brendon artfully weaves his way through the dancers stretching, and preparing for the night’s show, eyes downcast like he can’t bring himself to look Ryan in the eye. Ryan thinks it’s a bad thing.
When Brendon finally reaches him, he leads him away into one of the booths far from prying ears and inquisitive stares, because he has a feeling this isn’t going to end well, and the last thing he wants is to have his heart-broken when people are watching. The curtain falls shut behind them, hiding them from the view of everyone else.
Ryan casts a glance at Brendon’s face, and seeing the undiluted misery there decides that the conversation will be a lot easier if he keeps his eyes fixed on the red-painted walls surrounding them. He’s glad he chose to stand in the shadows, because he doesn’t want Brendon to see any of the motions he is struggling to hold on to. The palms of his hands are clammy with cold-sweat, drenched in fear, and waiting for the inevitable that’s about to slap him right across the face.
“I’m sorry,” Brendon whispers finally, and it sounds exactly like he thought it would; goodbye.
The words sink in like knives, but Ryan takes them without letting anything break the surface of his calm exterior. He breathes evenly through his nose, fighting against his lungs because they don’t want air. His feet move past Brendon’s immobile body towards the curtain.
He says, “Yeah, me too”, before the curtain falls over Brendon’s hunched frame.
This is epically late again, but I've hit a very busy time of year with school work and I've had loads of coursework to do, and this chapters pretty crappy. I admit this took the back seat for a while, and my writing's kind of suffered because I don't have the energy to come up with any of the metaphors I usually do. Anywho enjoy.