fic: why don't you do right
rpf rockstars and politicians. Matt/Kaz. 1200 words. “Haven’t you heard? I’m very famous.”
notes: this series (it is a series now, what even) has nose-dived from serious concern to full blown problem. anyway, S please feel better. Janie, sorry I didn't respond to your email, I was writing this randomness.
For those unaware this is a continuation(ish) of this and this
It’s like this-
The sharp, high, dull scream in the background. A thousand voices merging into one blast of nothing and every voice has a pair of eyes and everyone of them is trained on the stage and when she steps out from the darkness, into the burn of the light and the distant flash and stammer of a hundred cameras, there is nothing but anticipation. She takes a breath.
She takes a breath and in that moment anything could happen.
For a long time this is all that makes life worth living.
-
He’s too serious, too sure of himself and if there’s ever a reason to hate him it’s this. The lies she can live with. She knows all about lies, about how the right reason for one isn’t inoculation but it allows for a softer landing. Lies are easy. It’s him that she can’t deal with.
He’s halfway to charming-smiles at women in the street and has them turning to take a second look once he’s passed-but he never quite manages to follow through and the resulting fumble is always what truly endears him to people. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He fakes his way through every social interaction but at the end of every day he knows what he wants.
She’d like to blame it on politics. She’d like to say it’s what the environment demands of him (and maybe it is. He’s good, she’s heard. Not just good but visionary. He’s very nearly a someone in his world) but no one is that good at adapting, not really.
He was born knowing what he wanted. She could never choose so she takes everything she can get her hands on.
-
The first time she sees him-really sees him, not looks at the random order his features decide to a call a face, but actually knows what he is, that he’s dangerous-is at a party, a different party (there is always another party).
He cuts sharp in a suit, a red tie giving him something like gravitas and she’ll give him this-he can spin an image. He drops a hand to her wrist, bypassing small talk and throwing them straight into familiarity and for a moment she wants to tilt her hand back and slap him. Then he smiles and it’s all in his eyes (old eyes, this is really the appeal) and she lets him be.
“I didn’t think men like you were supposed to speak to women like me.”
He laughs. A quick flash of joy across his face and she can’t understand how they aren’t being stared at right now. How no one seems to look at them. Like they’re displaced-same position, wrong time.
“Then you better not tell anyone.” (She’ll make him eat these words one day.)
A beat and it isn’t staring, it’s studying. She slips a bit of her top lip into her mouth, it ruins her lipstick. He shifts his arms behind himself, laces his fingers and he looks nearly proper-she wants to laugh.
“Mr. Smith. Right?”
“I was hoping you’d remember.” There’s no flattery there. No drip of half-concealed lust. Just a thought he’s had and put into words. She tilts her head to the side, hair falling just over her shoulder and a camera flashes and the image will be in half a dozen tabloids tomorrow. Just that image, her face tight in thought, eyes wide trying to take him.
“I don’t really understand you.”
It’s an admission and she wants to take it back as much as she wants him to read it as such. He shifts from one foot to the other, a beat of uncertainty, for a second he looks like a child. Then he smiles and he’s all devil.
“But you want to.”
There’s a response she can give to this. Something sharp and suitably witty but it won’t come until she’s in the shower three days from now and the way his lips twist means he knows it too. Luck intervenes and someone steps up to talk to him.
She needs a cigarette.
-
She misses him when he isn’t there. It shouldn’t be surprising. Time actually spent with him is all laughter and dancing in the kitchen and chain-smoking in his bathroom while he makes masks out of shaving cream. Being with Matt is so easy she forgets about it.
But nature’s true love was always balance and when he isn’t there every thought of him is like a repeated stab to the lungs. She misses him when he isn’t there and a certain melancholy whine works its way into every song and she smiles too brightly when people ask after health.
(A note: people are never asking about your health. People are asking about your sex life. If you haven’t figured this out already, you don’t have a sex life.)
She calls him and his voice sparks a quick release of endorphins and she saves them. She deserves them. She deserves a lot more than he can give but she’ll always take anything she can find.
-
It’s easier to think of this as a disconnected moment but when he presses a glass of whiskey into her hand, it’s just a continuation of what she generously terms the earlier conversation.
“You looked like you could use a drink.”
“So you can see through walls now? I’m pretty sure the alley isn’t visible from the bar.”
“Earlier. I meant.”
She feels a second of remorse for the sharpness before the laughter in his voice catches up with her. She eases her shoulders back from tension, presses herself against the brick wall and takes a sip from the glass.
“I think you might be stalking me.”
“That’s a bit pompous.”
“Haven’t you heard? I’m very famous.”
He wraps his hand around her wrist again. It’s not a possessive gesture, more bracing-whether for him or her she can’t be sure. The moment before he kisses her she closes her eyes to slits and tries not to look at him.
“I shouldn’t be doing this.”
She laughs at him. His hand tightens at her waist. He keeps it there all the way to the cab (and this is a bad idea, someone will notice. Someone always notices) and the ride to his house (small, sparsely furnished, more books than anything-except maybe empty gin bottles).
When he unzips her dress she stops him with a hand against his cheek.
“You shouldn’t be doing this.”
Then she bites his lip.
-
Eventually he’ll get bored of her, she’s almost certain. There’s too much risk and she isn’t worth the loss-not when he has all the world opening up before him. If the roles were reversed she’d never pick him.
(This is a lie. Poorly constructed and easily seen through. But it’s enough to let her sleep at night. That’s all that really counts.)
notes: this series (it is a series now, what even) has nose-dived from serious concern to full blown problem. anyway, S please feel better. Janie, sorry I didn't respond to your email, I was writing this randomness.
For those unaware this is a continuation(ish) of this and this
It’s like this-
The sharp, high, dull scream in the background. A thousand voices merging into one blast of nothing and every voice has a pair of eyes and everyone of them is trained on the stage and when she steps out from the darkness, into the burn of the light and the distant flash and stammer of a hundred cameras, there is nothing but anticipation. She takes a breath.
She takes a breath and in that moment anything could happen.
For a long time this is all that makes life worth living.
-
He’s too serious, too sure of himself and if there’s ever a reason to hate him it’s this. The lies she can live with. She knows all about lies, about how the right reason for one isn’t inoculation but it allows for a softer landing. Lies are easy. It’s him that she can’t deal with.
He’s halfway to charming-smiles at women in the street and has them turning to take a second look once he’s passed-but he never quite manages to follow through and the resulting fumble is always what truly endears him to people. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He fakes his way through every social interaction but at the end of every day he knows what he wants.
She’d like to blame it on politics. She’d like to say it’s what the environment demands of him (and maybe it is. He’s good, she’s heard. Not just good but visionary. He’s very nearly a someone in his world) but no one is that good at adapting, not really.
He was born knowing what he wanted. She could never choose so she takes everything she can get her hands on.
-
The first time she sees him-really sees him, not looks at the random order his features decide to a call a face, but actually knows what he is, that he’s dangerous-is at a party, a different party (there is always another party).
He cuts sharp in a suit, a red tie giving him something like gravitas and she’ll give him this-he can spin an image. He drops a hand to her wrist, bypassing small talk and throwing them straight into familiarity and for a moment she wants to tilt her hand back and slap him. Then he smiles and it’s all in his eyes (old eyes, this is really the appeal) and she lets him be.
“I didn’t think men like you were supposed to speak to women like me.”
He laughs. A quick flash of joy across his face and she can’t understand how they aren’t being stared at right now. How no one seems to look at them. Like they’re displaced-same position, wrong time.
“Then you better not tell anyone.” (She’ll make him eat these words one day.)
A beat and it isn’t staring, it’s studying. She slips a bit of her top lip into her mouth, it ruins her lipstick. He shifts his arms behind himself, laces his fingers and he looks nearly proper-she wants to laugh.
“Mr. Smith. Right?”
“I was hoping you’d remember.” There’s no flattery there. No drip of half-concealed lust. Just a thought he’s had and put into words. She tilts her head to the side, hair falling just over her shoulder and a camera flashes and the image will be in half a dozen tabloids tomorrow. Just that image, her face tight in thought, eyes wide trying to take him.
“I don’t really understand you.”
It’s an admission and she wants to take it back as much as she wants him to read it as such. He shifts from one foot to the other, a beat of uncertainty, for a second he looks like a child. Then he smiles and he’s all devil.
“But you want to.”
There’s a response she can give to this. Something sharp and suitably witty but it won’t come until she’s in the shower three days from now and the way his lips twist means he knows it too. Luck intervenes and someone steps up to talk to him.
She needs a cigarette.
-
She misses him when he isn’t there. It shouldn’t be surprising. Time actually spent with him is all laughter and dancing in the kitchen and chain-smoking in his bathroom while he makes masks out of shaving cream. Being with Matt is so easy she forgets about it.
But nature’s true love was always balance and when he isn’t there every thought of him is like a repeated stab to the lungs. She misses him when he isn’t there and a certain melancholy whine works its way into every song and she smiles too brightly when people ask after health.
(A note: people are never asking about your health. People are asking about your sex life. If you haven’t figured this out already, you don’t have a sex life.)
She calls him and his voice sparks a quick release of endorphins and she saves them. She deserves them. She deserves a lot more than he can give but she’ll always take anything she can find.
-
It’s easier to think of this as a disconnected moment but when he presses a glass of whiskey into her hand, it’s just a continuation of what she generously terms the earlier conversation.
“You looked like you could use a drink.”
“So you can see through walls now? I’m pretty sure the alley isn’t visible from the bar.”
“Earlier. I meant.”
She feels a second of remorse for the sharpness before the laughter in his voice catches up with her. She eases her shoulders back from tension, presses herself against the brick wall and takes a sip from the glass.
“I think you might be stalking me.”
“That’s a bit pompous.”
“Haven’t you heard? I’m very famous.”
He wraps his hand around her wrist again. It’s not a possessive gesture, more bracing-whether for him or her she can’t be sure. The moment before he kisses her she closes her eyes to slits and tries not to look at him.
“I shouldn’t be doing this.”
She laughs at him. His hand tightens at her waist. He keeps it there all the way to the cab (and this is a bad idea, someone will notice. Someone always notices) and the ride to his house (small, sparsely furnished, more books than anything-except maybe empty gin bottles).
When he unzips her dress she stops him with a hand against his cheek.
“You shouldn’t be doing this.”
Then she bites his lip.
-
Eventually he’ll get bored of her, she’s almost certain. There’s too much risk and she isn’t worth the loss-not when he has all the world opening up before him. If the roles were reversed she’d never pick him.
(This is a lie. Poorly constructed and easily seen through. But it’s enough to let her sleep at night. That’s all that really counts.)