. the matador .
title: the matador
author: hollytron/
realifehiatus
summary: maybe this is what really ended up happening, maybe this is why things worked out the way they did.
notes: so remember that little fic coastal i wrote a while back? it has a sequel, sort of. it's set in the same 'verse.
unbeta'd, paul-centric fic, to coincide with 1.) his birthday and 2.) the fact my remix submission will be late. yes, i know, egads, the horror!
[written for the girl with stars in her eyes, who dissapeared into the night sky. ]
*
The Matador
*
It's an overcast day, when the phone rings for the first time in two months.
The shutters are flapping wildly against the windows, and Paul knows it's about that time of year where the rain rolls in, but he just doesn't have the heart to go out and secure them closed. Padding down to the kitchen, he can still feel the coolness of the tile under his socks chill him to the bone.
Flicking his coffeemaker on, he's almost to the source of the ringing, but knocks over a sheaf of paper in the process. Papers flutter to his feet, like birds unable to take flight. It's kind of beautiful, in a tragic sort of way. Picking them up, he lets the phone go to the answering machine before he deletes the message, without even listening to it.
*
Ambling back into the living room, sipping a large cup of coffee, Paul picks his reading glasses up from the desk and begins putting the pages back in order. He's impressed to find out he's about two-thirds of the way through The Matador, which is a whole lot further than he thought he was.
It's not a contrary homage to his, their, old record label, he keeps reminding the critic in his head. Nor is it really about his own life, but he knows it's also not removed enough to not be taken as semi-autobiographical. It's a lot more about being these people, these tiny, little insignificant people playing Russian roulette everyday, baiting things that were much larger than they could ever understand and the different levels in which they all we able to deal with the situation they were given. The story weaves together the lives of four different people, their hopes and dreams. The lives they lead and the lies they bled.
The Matador is not about Interpol, but it might have been Interpol's. It probably would have been his narrative for their fourth CD, if they had ever made it.
If Paul had never left.
*
Paul swears he likes Maine, he really does.
Even if the weather is awful three-fourths the year, and it snows an ungodly amount. It only makes him stay in more often, doubling down on finishing his personal deadline for the transcript. When he does go out, it's usually just to the local store, once he has run out of coffee, cigarettes or bourbon, and has bothered to shower that day.
Which reminds him, as he sets down his glasses and stares at the computer screen in front of him wearily. Today is probably a pretty good day to do exactly that, shower and go more coffee. He's out of of coffee and the coffee at the store may only be Folgers and taste like shit, but he has yet to receive his fucking order from Gevalia, and will just have to make do with what he can get.
Normally he likes the fact that he is close enough that he could go back if he wanted to, but far enough to feel like he doesn't have to.
But, seriously, sometimes he misses the city and wishes there was even a goddamn Starbucks in this one-light town.
*
"Paul? Paul, are you actually answering your phone?" A voice asks, as Paul cracks open an eyelid and realizes the phone is already in his hand and he's picked it up by reflex. "Paul!"
"Nnnnngh..." He replies, rubbing his eyes and looking at the clock reading 11AM. "Helena? Is that you?"
"Yes, Paul. Jesus Christ, what does it take to get you to answer the phone over there?" He can practically hear her rolling her eyes right over the phone line. "Don't answer that, it was a rhetorical question."
"I know that." He answers irritatedly, slipping on a hoodie as soon as he rolls back his covers.
Jesus, he needs to turn on the heater once in a fucking while or he's going to freeze to death, and people will find his perfectly frozen body. It'll be like a sci-fi movie where the protagonist gets cryogenically frozen and when they wake up, suddenly it is hundreds of years later and they mope and sulk, and have lots of flashbacks to the good old days, that weren't even really that good.
"Well it's nice to know you are alive at least, the boys were worried no one had gotten an update about you in a while." She tells him, snapping him out of his reverie, as he descends the stairs to the living room, where the thermostat resides. "Still busy writing?"
"That depends on the day." Paul answers, as he hears the whirr of the heater coming to life. "Still busy being almost famous?"
"Ouch, Paul. That was harsh, even for you."
"It's nice to know you care, 'Lena." He tells her, sitting down in this favourite chair in the living room, before hunting for the remote and turning on the TV.
"I try." She replies with a wistful sigh.
"I bet you do." He says before yawning, and replacing the phone on the downstairs receiver, more content to fall back asleep in front of the TV watching whats left of the Saturday morning cartoons.
*
He finally hits a week where no writing comes to him. Without deadlines to meet, and producers and bandmates, he had nearly forgotten what writer's block felt like.
When he goes to the store, he stocks up on plenty of bourbon.
*
About two months, well... Paul thinks it's been two months, but he's not really sure. Time is charted, instead by the written word, in Paul's mind these days. So it's been exactly seventy-three pages and two paragraphs, since Helena called him, when he gets the message from Carlos.
"Look, asshole." Carlos ephasiszes the word in a way that actually makes Paul cringe. "I don't know what you said to Helena last time, but it must have been something pretty fucked up, knowing you. Anyway, just wanted to let you know I finally finished my movie, before you read about it in the tabloids, which I'm sure you will." Carlos pauses to take a breath, before rattling on.
"Oh, speaking of tabloid friendly... Dan and Sam are in a band together again. I think their name is Lark, maybe? They're not really sure on a name because Billy keeps changing it. Yes, Billy-as-in-Billy Corgan, Dan and Sam are in a band with Billy fucking Corgan. I know what you're thinking, Paul, because I'm right there with you."
"Anyway, whatever. Call somebody sometime or I'm going to call the police in Maine and let them know there's a body somewhere near Camden's shoreline, probably in a ridiculous, alcohol-filled, one bedroom shanty, with the paint peeling off, reeking of cigarette smoke. You would live in something so destitute, claiming something like it being as empty as your soul, Paul. You would."
*
One day he goes to the store and is idly flipping through a music magazine while waiting in the checkout line, when he sees an article about Lark's new CD. Dan and Sam don't look like they've changed much, but there is a difference to the interview Paul knows Interpol never had.
The interviewer doesn't ask much about their "previous bands" and Paul doesn't know if that subject has been politely tread on too many times, because Simon Ratcliffe kind of fucked over the real Lark by remaking the line up when they broke up, or because being in a band with Billy Corgan means a whole shitload of cans of worms when you mention something like that. Regardless, neither he nor Carlos are mentioned in the article, and it take Paul a moment to process it's been over two and half years anyway, why would they be asked about them?
Two and a half years, Paul thinks to himself. Carlos has already directed a movie, Dan and Sam are in a band with Billy Corgan and have already released a CD. What have I done? I've done jack in comparison. Dicked around on a novel, played recluse in the woods, drank enough bourbon to fill an olympic sized swimming pool.
Frustrated, he goes home and downloads their first single off of Blue Moon Waverly, mainly out of morbid curiosity. Sam's drums are loud and heavy. Daniel actually gets to do guitar solos, something Paul only vaguely remembers him doing in the ten years he knew him. Billy Corgan's lyrics range from waxing philosophical to bordering arrogant and ever so slightly contrite, as he wails.
It doesn't sound even remotely like Interpol. And much to his dismay, Paul really likes it.
*
He finds himself singing their second single "Pointless, Painless" around the house, while helping himself to a fifth shot of bourbon, and that's about when the reality of his life finally comes crashing down around him.
So, of course, the first thing he does is call Carlos.
*
"We're the other half of the band, the dismal failures. The ones they do exposes on VH1 about."
Paul slurs this amazing revelation of his to Carlos over the phone, totally convinced this whole chat was a good idea. (We could cap the old times, he thought to himself as he picked up the phone, laughing into the receiver) "VH1 Behind the Music Presents to You: Interpol, a story of coke, booze, eyeliner, and the random vegetarian who put up with all their shit." He giggles, before dissolving into a fit of hiccups.
"I find that incredibly hard to believe they'd care that much." Carlos replies, sounding bored. "We were, what would you call us? The equivalent to a seminal nineties alt-rock band? We didn't even make as much of a cultural impact as Dishwalla, for god sakes."
"You're abs-avbso-fuck!-absolutely right." Paul agrees, toasting his glass with an imaginary person. "We were less than Dishwalla... wow." He trails off, frowning even though he knows Carlos can't see it.
"Yes, I'm going to go wallow in my misery tonight, and possibly my own vomit tomorrow morning, just like you, because of this shocking revelation." Carlos answers. "Jesus, Paul. Go finish your novel, get out of exile. Move on."
"You know, I miss you. Sometimes, fucker. One of the characters in my book is based off of you." Paul blurts out. "You should, like, visit me. Maybe I'll give you a bj. Just like old times, right, Cee?"
"I don't feel sorry for you." Carlos replies. "But maybe I'll visit, if I'm feeling particularly decadent and horny."
*
Carlos does, however, eventually come around to visiting Paul months later. He actually drives the entire way, and is staring at a crumpled and creased post-it with Paul's address scrawled on it, contemplating if this was such a good idea. It's been an entire three years since he has seen Paul, and maybe it should stay that way for both of their sakes, maybe they just should not tempt fate this time around.
After knocking on the door of Paul's quaint little house (and it's not so much quaint, but exactly what Carlos thought it would be in his mind) and getting no answer, he heads out back to the coastline. It's a pretty fucking beautiful view, and he kind of understands why Paul chose this place. He was always fond of the sea, anytime they went touring and ended up on the coast, Carlos always knew where he could find Paul. Barefoot, windswept and salty, walking the shoreline.
And it's practically deja vu, because after climbing a few small sandy dunes, he spots him. Paul is walking barefoot down the shore, bourbon bottle in hand, kicking at clumps of seaweed, and totally oblivious to Carlos' presence. His hair is the longest Carlos has ever seen it, light brown locks escaping his ponytail. Carlos watches as he occasionally tucks them behind his ears, only for them to escape again.
And that's when he remembers how breathtakingly beautiful Paul Banks was, sometimes. Like when he was young and used to worry his bottom lip between his teeth, or when he was older and had his lips wrapped around Carlos' cock. Because right now his face is in profile, looking out to the horizon, as the wind whips through his hair, and Carlos thinks to himself, this is one of those moments.
He takes it in for a few greedy moments before climbing down the dune to greet him.
*
"Carlos?" Paul looks at the distant figure quizzically, before running over, his bourbon making a sloshing noise in the bottle. "You're just in time for the celebration!"
"Celebration?" Carlos asks cautiously, realizing Paul is drunk, and probably is perpetually like this now. Paul hands the bottle to Carlos and slings an arm over his shoulder. "The book, it's done." Is his breathy reply, and Carlos can smell the warm alcohol as he exhales. "C'mon, lets go inside and celebrate properly." Paul tells him, tugging at his sleeve, tripping over their feet. They land in an ungainly heap of limbs in the sand, and Paul just laughs, cackling wildly. Carlos rolls his eyes in irritation, knowing there is sand in his two-thousand dollar Yves loafers he will never be able to get out, but stops when he sees how genuine Paul's drunken smile really is.
"Ooops!" Paul says mischievously, before brushing himself off and getting up. Carlos begins to get up as well, but Paul gently pushes him back down, and sits next to him, leaning his head on Carlos' shoulder. "I guess we can stay right here, instead. Lets watch the sunset, Cee."
Carlos contents himself with passing the half-empty bottle of bourbon between them, as he and Paul watch the sunset over the waves.
*
The End.
*
One or two small author notes:
1.) Yes, Lark actually is a real band. Or i should say was? I guess they recently broke up. i know zero about them, but the name sounded pretty and the boys + billy needed a bassist, and conviently this worked out pretty well in fiction. i checked them out on myspace and they sound like portishead, kind of...?
2.) there's also a deleted scene where i blatantly steal
skoosiepants'ryan ross the crazy murder mystery writer, and make him paul's neighbour, that i'll put up another day when i'm not so damn tired.
author: hollytron/
realifehiatus
summary: maybe this is what really ended up happening, maybe this is why things worked out the way they did.
notes: so remember that little fic coastal i wrote a while back? it has a sequel, sort of. it's set in the same 'verse.
unbeta'd, paul-centric fic, to coincide with 1.) his birthday and 2.) the fact my remix submission will be late. yes, i know, egads, the horror!
[written for the girl with stars in her eyes, who dissapeared into the night sky. ]
*
The Matador
*
It's an overcast day, when the phone rings for the first time in two months.
The shutters are flapping wildly against the windows, and Paul knows it's about that time of year where the rain rolls in, but he just doesn't have the heart to go out and secure them closed. Padding down to the kitchen, he can still feel the coolness of the tile under his socks chill him to the bone.
Flicking his coffeemaker on, he's almost to the source of the ringing, but knocks over a sheaf of paper in the process. Papers flutter to his feet, like birds unable to take flight. It's kind of beautiful, in a tragic sort of way. Picking them up, he lets the phone go to the answering machine before he deletes the message, without even listening to it.
*
Ambling back into the living room, sipping a large cup of coffee, Paul picks his reading glasses up from the desk and begins putting the pages back in order. He's impressed to find out he's about two-thirds of the way through The Matador, which is a whole lot further than he thought he was.
It's not a contrary homage to his, their, old record label, he keeps reminding the critic in his head. Nor is it really about his own life, but he knows it's also not removed enough to not be taken as semi-autobiographical. It's a lot more about being these people, these tiny, little insignificant people playing Russian roulette everyday, baiting things that were much larger than they could ever understand and the different levels in which they all we able to deal with the situation they were given. The story weaves together the lives of four different people, their hopes and dreams. The lives they lead and the lies they bled.
The Matador is not about Interpol, but it might have been Interpol's. It probably would have been his narrative for their fourth CD, if they had ever made it.
If Paul had never left.
*
Paul swears he likes Maine, he really does.
Even if the weather is awful three-fourths the year, and it snows an ungodly amount. It only makes him stay in more often, doubling down on finishing his personal deadline for the transcript. When he does go out, it's usually just to the local store, once he has run out of coffee, cigarettes or bourbon, and has bothered to shower that day.
Which reminds him, as he sets down his glasses and stares at the computer screen in front of him wearily. Today is probably a pretty good day to do exactly that, shower and go more coffee. He's out of of coffee and the coffee at the store may only be Folgers and taste like shit, but he has yet to receive his fucking order from Gevalia, and will just have to make do with what he can get.
Normally he likes the fact that he is close enough that he could go back if he wanted to, but far enough to feel like he doesn't have to.
But, seriously, sometimes he misses the city and wishes there was even a goddamn Starbucks in this one-light town.
*
"Paul? Paul, are you actually answering your phone?" A voice asks, as Paul cracks open an eyelid and realizes the phone is already in his hand and he's picked it up by reflex. "Paul!"
"Nnnnngh..." He replies, rubbing his eyes and looking at the clock reading 11AM. "Helena? Is that you?"
"Yes, Paul. Jesus Christ, what does it take to get you to answer the phone over there?" He can practically hear her rolling her eyes right over the phone line. "Don't answer that, it was a rhetorical question."
"I know that." He answers irritatedly, slipping on a hoodie as soon as he rolls back his covers.
Jesus, he needs to turn on the heater once in a fucking while or he's going to freeze to death, and people will find his perfectly frozen body. It'll be like a sci-fi movie where the protagonist gets cryogenically frozen and when they wake up, suddenly it is hundreds of years later and they mope and sulk, and have lots of flashbacks to the good old days, that weren't even really that good.
"Well it's nice to know you are alive at least, the boys were worried no one had gotten an update about you in a while." She tells him, snapping him out of his reverie, as he descends the stairs to the living room, where the thermostat resides. "Still busy writing?"
"That depends on the day." Paul answers, as he hears the whirr of the heater coming to life. "Still busy being almost famous?"
"Ouch, Paul. That was harsh, even for you."
"It's nice to know you care, 'Lena." He tells her, sitting down in this favourite chair in the living room, before hunting for the remote and turning on the TV.
"I try." She replies with a wistful sigh.
"I bet you do." He says before yawning, and replacing the phone on the downstairs receiver, more content to fall back asleep in front of the TV watching whats left of the Saturday morning cartoons.
*
He finally hits a week where no writing comes to him. Without deadlines to meet, and producers and bandmates, he had nearly forgotten what writer's block felt like.
When he goes to the store, he stocks up on plenty of bourbon.
*
About two months, well... Paul thinks it's been two months, but he's not really sure. Time is charted, instead by the written word, in Paul's mind these days. So it's been exactly seventy-three pages and two paragraphs, since Helena called him, when he gets the message from Carlos.
"Look, asshole." Carlos ephasiszes the word in a way that actually makes Paul cringe. "I don't know what you said to Helena last time, but it must have been something pretty fucked up, knowing you. Anyway, just wanted to let you know I finally finished my movie, before you read about it in the tabloids, which I'm sure you will." Carlos pauses to take a breath, before rattling on.
"Oh, speaking of tabloid friendly... Dan and Sam are in a band together again. I think their name is Lark, maybe? They're not really sure on a name because Billy keeps changing it. Yes, Billy-as-in-Billy Corgan, Dan and Sam are in a band with Billy fucking Corgan. I know what you're thinking, Paul, because I'm right there with you."
"Anyway, whatever. Call somebody sometime or I'm going to call the police in Maine and let them know there's a body somewhere near Camden's shoreline, probably in a ridiculous, alcohol-filled, one bedroom shanty, with the paint peeling off, reeking of cigarette smoke. You would live in something so destitute, claiming something like it being as empty as your soul, Paul. You would."
*
One day he goes to the store and is idly flipping through a music magazine while waiting in the checkout line, when he sees an article about Lark's new CD. Dan and Sam don't look like they've changed much, but there is a difference to the interview Paul knows Interpol never had.
The interviewer doesn't ask much about their "previous bands" and Paul doesn't know if that subject has been politely tread on too many times, because Simon Ratcliffe kind of fucked over the real Lark by remaking the line up when they broke up, or because being in a band with Billy Corgan means a whole shitload of cans of worms when you mention something like that. Regardless, neither he nor Carlos are mentioned in the article, and it take Paul a moment to process it's been over two and half years anyway, why would they be asked about them?
Two and a half years, Paul thinks to himself. Carlos has already directed a movie, Dan and Sam are in a band with Billy Corgan and have already released a CD. What have I done? I've done jack in comparison. Dicked around on a novel, played recluse in the woods, drank enough bourbon to fill an olympic sized swimming pool.
Frustrated, he goes home and downloads their first single off of Blue Moon Waverly, mainly out of morbid curiosity. Sam's drums are loud and heavy. Daniel actually gets to do guitar solos, something Paul only vaguely remembers him doing in the ten years he knew him. Billy Corgan's lyrics range from waxing philosophical to bordering arrogant and ever so slightly contrite, as he wails.
It doesn't sound even remotely like Interpol. And much to his dismay, Paul really likes it.
*
He finds himself singing their second single "Pointless, Painless" around the house, while helping himself to a fifth shot of bourbon, and that's about when the reality of his life finally comes crashing down around him.
So, of course, the first thing he does is call Carlos.
*
"We're the other half of the band, the dismal failures. The ones they do exposes on VH1 about."
Paul slurs this amazing revelation of his to Carlos over the phone, totally convinced this whole chat was a good idea. (We could cap the old times, he thought to himself as he picked up the phone, laughing into the receiver) "VH1 Behind the Music Presents to You: Interpol, a story of coke, booze, eyeliner, and the random vegetarian who put up with all their shit." He giggles, before dissolving into a fit of hiccups.
"I find that incredibly hard to believe they'd care that much." Carlos replies, sounding bored. "We were, what would you call us? The equivalent to a seminal nineties alt-rock band? We didn't even make as much of a cultural impact as Dishwalla, for god sakes."
"You're abs-avbso-fuck!-absolutely right." Paul agrees, toasting his glass with an imaginary person. "We were less than Dishwalla... wow." He trails off, frowning even though he knows Carlos can't see it.
"Yes, I'm going to go wallow in my misery tonight, and possibly my own vomit tomorrow morning, just like you, because of this shocking revelation." Carlos answers. "Jesus, Paul. Go finish your novel, get out of exile. Move on."
"You know, I miss you. Sometimes, fucker. One of the characters in my book is based off of you." Paul blurts out. "You should, like, visit me. Maybe I'll give you a bj. Just like old times, right, Cee?"
"I don't feel sorry for you." Carlos replies. "But maybe I'll visit, if I'm feeling particularly decadent and horny."
*
Carlos does, however, eventually come around to visiting Paul months later. He actually drives the entire way, and is staring at a crumpled and creased post-it with Paul's address scrawled on it, contemplating if this was such a good idea. It's been an entire three years since he has seen Paul, and maybe it should stay that way for both of their sakes, maybe they just should not tempt fate this time around.
After knocking on the door of Paul's quaint little house (and it's not so much quaint, but exactly what Carlos thought it would be in his mind) and getting no answer, he heads out back to the coastline. It's a pretty fucking beautiful view, and he kind of understands why Paul chose this place. He was always fond of the sea, anytime they went touring and ended up on the coast, Carlos always knew where he could find Paul. Barefoot, windswept and salty, walking the shoreline.
And it's practically deja vu, because after climbing a few small sandy dunes, he spots him. Paul is walking barefoot down the shore, bourbon bottle in hand, kicking at clumps of seaweed, and totally oblivious to Carlos' presence. His hair is the longest Carlos has ever seen it, light brown locks escaping his ponytail. Carlos watches as he occasionally tucks them behind his ears, only for them to escape again.
And that's when he remembers how breathtakingly beautiful Paul Banks was, sometimes. Like when he was young and used to worry his bottom lip between his teeth, or when he was older and had his lips wrapped around Carlos' cock. Because right now his face is in profile, looking out to the horizon, as the wind whips through his hair, and Carlos thinks to himself, this is one of those moments.
He takes it in for a few greedy moments before climbing down the dune to greet him.
*
"Carlos?" Paul looks at the distant figure quizzically, before running over, his bourbon making a sloshing noise in the bottle. "You're just in time for the celebration!"
"Celebration?" Carlos asks cautiously, realizing Paul is drunk, and probably is perpetually like this now. Paul hands the bottle to Carlos and slings an arm over his shoulder. "The book, it's done." Is his breathy reply, and Carlos can smell the warm alcohol as he exhales. "C'mon, lets go inside and celebrate properly." Paul tells him, tugging at his sleeve, tripping over their feet. They land in an ungainly heap of limbs in the sand, and Paul just laughs, cackling wildly. Carlos rolls his eyes in irritation, knowing there is sand in his two-thousand dollar Yves loafers he will never be able to get out, but stops when he sees how genuine Paul's drunken smile really is.
"Ooops!" Paul says mischievously, before brushing himself off and getting up. Carlos begins to get up as well, but Paul gently pushes him back down, and sits next to him, leaning his head on Carlos' shoulder. "I guess we can stay right here, instead. Lets watch the sunset, Cee."
Carlos contents himself with passing the half-empty bottle of bourbon between them, as he and Paul watch the sunset over the waves.
*
The End.
*
One or two small author notes:
1.) Yes, Lark actually is a real band. Or i should say was? I guess they recently broke up. i know zero about them, but the name sounded pretty and the boys + billy needed a bassist, and conviently this worked out pretty well in fiction. i checked them out on myspace and they sound like portishead, kind of...?
2.) there's also a deleted scene where i blatantly steal
skoosiepants'ryan ross the crazy murder mystery writer, and make him paul's neighbour, that i'll put up another day when i'm not so damn tired.