Sympathy for the Devils, part 2
Warnings and disclaimer: False, false, false. You can find part 1 here.
Summary: This part speaks about Gigi and Pavel's angsty relationship: its origins, and the current situation. Drug usage, angst, violence. You have been warned. Oh, and some Czech cameos.
Gianluigi walks inside the room he’s renting. He’s still thinking about what happened some days earlier. How he had to beg for a chance in the music industry. Humiliated? A little, mainly because he was almost crying in front of three Englishmen who stared at him with smiles that seemed slightly mocking for him. Especially that drummer, David. He seemed to get a kick out of it.
But he’s going to have to live with that now.
He lies down on his bed, and cuddles next to a blonde figure, who, in spite of seeming fast asleep, opens his eyes softly when he feels the body of the Italian next to him.
“Gigi? Is that you?” he slurs.
“Yes, yes, Pavel, it’s me,” he answers.
The blonde man cuddles closer to Gigi. He’s older, but his face is almost childlike. His long blonde hair falls playfully over his pale forehead and cheeks, and a pair of big, blue, almost curious eyes, in spite of their being hazy, stare at his partner. And Gianluigi stares back, running his hands through golden hair and deliberately ignoring the blood smudge at the corner of those rosy-red lips, and the bruises that paint the white, thin arms, together with the red needle-marks.
He doesn’t want to know what this man has been up to tonight.
This man, the one he actually begged for, when he told the Englishmen he needed to stay with the band.
Pavel Nedved. The man that could have been a symbol of the grunge life. The most beautiful crack-whore in all of the Czech Republic.
Gianluigi’s lover… his obsession. The man he’s devoted to. His curse.
He will never forget that first meeting, at Pavel’s native country. Back then, Gigi was just a traveling performer, a rambler, singing at every European bar for money. He didn’t earn much, but there were always free drinks, and a cheap place to sleep, and sometimes pretty boys that would want to spend the night with him. Just what a single, roving, homosexual man needed and nothing more.
That night, he was at a bar at the Czech Republic. Gigi was feeling important, because, for the first time in his life, he had an opening act. The owner of the bar had asked him to play after a local artist did.
Though, when the Czech singer came out, Gianluigi knew he was, metaphorically, on his knees. And started wishing he could literally be, too. A long-haired, blonde man, with eyes like the sky, a nice body, and a strange resemblance to Patrick Swayze. Gigi had seen his movies; he remembered how he had to hide from his Italian friends the fact he was smitten with the actor.
The blonde angel sat down at a small stool, and began playing and singing.
That’s when Gigi had noticed the guy was as high as a kite.
Yet, he had been charmed by the feeling the Czech had. Gigi didn’t understand all the words, but there was something in how the guy sang and played that was really touching. Nothing compared to how pop he was. Easy songs, inherited from every other Italian popstar: Lucio Dalla, Nicola di Bari. Those had been Gigi’s influences.
Nothing compared to the raw power of what he was listening to.
At least the three songs he had listened to. For there came a time in which the blonde man couldn’t sing anymore. He just got up and ran to the bar.
Gigi had known it was his turn now to take the stage, but he had just ignored it and had run to the bar too, watching the blonde, who just couldn’t keep himself straight. His hands were trembling; his whole body was shaking and he seemed rather impatient and angry.
“Karel!” the Czech had screamed. “I need it! I need it!”
“Three songs, Pavel,” the elderly owner had said, in an angry tone. “Three songs. That was not what we bargained for.”
“It’s because I need it!” Pavel kept on yelling. “You give it to me and I’ll be able to go on.”
“No,” Karel answered. “I know you play for your vices, but I just can’t go on supporting them if you keep scaring my customers off. And, anyways, I’m doing you a favor. All that shit’s going to kill you, sooner or later. So, I guess you’re better off it, even if it’s just for a day.”
At that, Pavel had tried to fling himself over the bar, in order to reach Karel, but he had failed miserably. He had ended up sprawled on the bar, amidst the noise of breaking glass. That was when the elderly owner had decided he was not going to stand this anymore.
“Koller!”
A tall, bald man who looked as if he would beat the shit out of anybody had walked into sight.
“Take Nedved away. Please!”
The man had not said anything, but instead had just taken Pavel by the waist and dragged him out, as if he had been nothing. And Gigi had stared at that scene, shocked, bewildered, thinking he should do something.
But, what?Karel had stared at the mess and shook his head. However, he had managed to muster a small smile and walked towards Gigi.
“I’m sorry,” he had apologized. “You may take the stage now, Mr. Buffon.”
But Gianluigi had ignored him. Instead, he had run out the bar, not paying attention to the curses and threats in Czech that rang out after him. He didn’t understand them, anyways.
He had found Pavel in a nearby alley, with Koller nowhere in sight. His nose was bleeding and the guy couldn’t even stand.
He had barely touched him when the Czech had spoken:
“Do you still want more, Koller? I’ll tell you what. I know you have, at least, a joint. Perhaps you could give me some, and I’ll blow you for that, and I won’t come back again, and you can tell Karel you finally drove me off.”
Gigi had been taken aback at the pretty boy with the dirty mouth, but he insisted.
“It’s not Koller.”
Pavel had made an effort to focus, narrowing his big eyes.
“Oh. Oh yeah. Pretty Italian boy, huh? Guitar man? What? Do you have a fix? Or do you want me to blow you?”
“No…” Gianluigi didn’t take drugs; he only drank, but he sure as hell wasn’t getting any money tonight for a drink. “I… I just… hey. Can you stand up?”
The Czech had laughed a sarcastic laugh, which would have even looked nice if it wasn’t because the nosebleed was already dripping over his lips.
“Stand up. Go away, boy. It won’t be the first time I sleep in an alley,”
Gigi had just dragged the other man to his feet.
“You can’t stay here.”
Pavel had just shrugged and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “So where are you going to take me?”
“To my place. At least you’ll have a roof over your head.”
They had walked the cold streets of Prague to the room Gigi was crashing in. All the way, the Italian had watched Pavel get more and more anxious. By the time they had got to the room, Pavel was funny and horny and was already fumbling with Gigi’s pants.
“Hey, hey…” Gigi had started out, completely confused. “You don’t have to do this.”
But the Czech was already on his knees.
“I wanna blow you. I’m gonna blow you. You give me place to stay, I’ll blow you. Before you ask me to.”
Gigi wasn’t even aroused, but everything changed when his limp cock was completely engulfed by Pavel’s sweet mouth.
He had blown him like he was used to it. The blonde knew all the tricks and knew how to use his tongue…
He had not let Gigi come. Instead, when he had tasted precum, Pavel had undressed himself and spread himself on the bed, giving the Italian a nice view of his arsehole.
“Come on. You like this, huh? You like boys, pretty Italian kid? Fuck me. Fuck me, go on.”
Gigi had complied with everything. He had fucked Pavel when he had asked to; he had gone faster when Pavel had moaned it. And, the next morning, when they had both woken up in a mess of soiled sheets, he had asked the Czech not to go, and had complied with getting him a fix. Everything just to get Pavel to travel around with him. In spite of his addictions and problems.
To have him on his bed. Like he is now.
“Are you keeping the job?” Pavel asks. His hazy eyes show a glint of sadness.
Gigi gives him a weak smile.
“Yes."
Pavel looks away. “What about me?”
“You can be a roadie. For now. You’ll be with me. Perhaps I can persuade them to let you be our opening act.”
“Thanks. You’ll be famous.”
Gigi caresses the golden mane. “No. We’ll be famous. Both of us.”
Pavel smiles, his little, sad smile.
“We should celebrate."
And, even though Gigi’s happy to have his lover near, happy to make love to him, he can’t help but feeling his stomach twist when he kisses Pavel and tastes blood, alcohol, and what he suspects is another man’s semen. He struggles to fight back tears when Pavel takes off his shirt and Gigi can see more needle-marks all over his arms, fresh scratches over his ribcage, and new bruises over his hips. When Pavel takes off his jeans and Gigi notices the bruises are dangerously close to the Czech’s groin, he cannot keep silent anymore.
“Who did that to you?”
“It doesn’t matter, Gigi.”
“Yes, it does.”
But Pavel has had his heroin fix, and the haze on his eyes seems to envelop him now.
“Nobody did, Gigi. Nobody. I got good stuff, and I’m celebrating with you. You’re gonna be a rockstar. So, come on, celebrate with me.”
And, as Pavel slowly impales himself on Gigi’s cock, and the Italian sees him moving and moaning loving words in his language, so different from the Czech, he lets his tears flow freely, wishing for a night when his lover will finally be safe in his arms.
To be continued
Summary: This part speaks about Gigi and Pavel's angsty relationship: its origins, and the current situation. Drug usage, angst, violence. You have been warned. Oh, and some Czech cameos.
Gianluigi walks inside the room he’s renting. He’s still thinking about what happened some days earlier. How he had to beg for a chance in the music industry. Humiliated? A little, mainly because he was almost crying in front of three Englishmen who stared at him with smiles that seemed slightly mocking for him. Especially that drummer, David. He seemed to get a kick out of it.
But he’s going to have to live with that now.
He lies down on his bed, and cuddles next to a blonde figure, who, in spite of seeming fast asleep, opens his eyes softly when he feels the body of the Italian next to him.
“Gigi? Is that you?” he slurs.
“Yes, yes, Pavel, it’s me,” he answers.
The blonde man cuddles closer to Gigi. He’s older, but his face is almost childlike. His long blonde hair falls playfully over his pale forehead and cheeks, and a pair of big, blue, almost curious eyes, in spite of their being hazy, stare at his partner. And Gianluigi stares back, running his hands through golden hair and deliberately ignoring the blood smudge at the corner of those rosy-red lips, and the bruises that paint the white, thin arms, together with the red needle-marks.
He doesn’t want to know what this man has been up to tonight.
This man, the one he actually begged for, when he told the Englishmen he needed to stay with the band.
Pavel Nedved. The man that could have been a symbol of the grunge life. The most beautiful crack-whore in all of the Czech Republic.
Gianluigi’s lover… his obsession. The man he’s devoted to. His curse.
He will never forget that first meeting, at Pavel’s native country. Back then, Gigi was just a traveling performer, a rambler, singing at every European bar for money. He didn’t earn much, but there were always free drinks, and a cheap place to sleep, and sometimes pretty boys that would want to spend the night with him. Just what a single, roving, homosexual man needed and nothing more.
That night, he was at a bar at the Czech Republic. Gigi was feeling important, because, for the first time in his life, he had an opening act. The owner of the bar had asked him to play after a local artist did.
Though, when the Czech singer came out, Gianluigi knew he was, metaphorically, on his knees. And started wishing he could literally be, too. A long-haired, blonde man, with eyes like the sky, a nice body, and a strange resemblance to Patrick Swayze. Gigi had seen his movies; he remembered how he had to hide from his Italian friends the fact he was smitten with the actor.
The blonde angel sat down at a small stool, and began playing and singing.
That’s when Gigi had noticed the guy was as high as a kite.
Yet, he had been charmed by the feeling the Czech had. Gigi didn’t understand all the words, but there was something in how the guy sang and played that was really touching. Nothing compared to how pop he was. Easy songs, inherited from every other Italian popstar: Lucio Dalla, Nicola di Bari. Those had been Gigi’s influences.
Nothing compared to the raw power of what he was listening to.
At least the three songs he had listened to. For there came a time in which the blonde man couldn’t sing anymore. He just got up and ran to the bar.
Gigi had known it was his turn now to take the stage, but he had just ignored it and had run to the bar too, watching the blonde, who just couldn’t keep himself straight. His hands were trembling; his whole body was shaking and he seemed rather impatient and angry.
“Karel!” the Czech had screamed. “I need it! I need it!”
“Three songs, Pavel,” the elderly owner had said, in an angry tone. “Three songs. That was not what we bargained for.”
“It’s because I need it!” Pavel kept on yelling. “You give it to me and I’ll be able to go on.”
“No,” Karel answered. “I know you play for your vices, but I just can’t go on supporting them if you keep scaring my customers off. And, anyways, I’m doing you a favor. All that shit’s going to kill you, sooner or later. So, I guess you’re better off it, even if it’s just for a day.”
At that, Pavel had tried to fling himself over the bar, in order to reach Karel, but he had failed miserably. He had ended up sprawled on the bar, amidst the noise of breaking glass. That was when the elderly owner had decided he was not going to stand this anymore.
“Koller!”
A tall, bald man who looked as if he would beat the shit out of anybody had walked into sight.
“Take Nedved away. Please!”
The man had not said anything, but instead had just taken Pavel by the waist and dragged him out, as if he had been nothing. And Gigi had stared at that scene, shocked, bewildered, thinking he should do something.
But, what?Karel had stared at the mess and shook his head. However, he had managed to muster a small smile and walked towards Gigi.
“I’m sorry,” he had apologized. “You may take the stage now, Mr. Buffon.”
But Gianluigi had ignored him. Instead, he had run out the bar, not paying attention to the curses and threats in Czech that rang out after him. He didn’t understand them, anyways.
He had found Pavel in a nearby alley, with Koller nowhere in sight. His nose was bleeding and the guy couldn’t even stand.
He had barely touched him when the Czech had spoken:
“Do you still want more, Koller? I’ll tell you what. I know you have, at least, a joint. Perhaps you could give me some, and I’ll blow you for that, and I won’t come back again, and you can tell Karel you finally drove me off.”
Gigi had been taken aback at the pretty boy with the dirty mouth, but he insisted.
“It’s not Koller.”
Pavel had made an effort to focus, narrowing his big eyes.
“Oh. Oh yeah. Pretty Italian boy, huh? Guitar man? What? Do you have a fix? Or do you want me to blow you?”
“No…” Gianluigi didn’t take drugs; he only drank, but he sure as hell wasn’t getting any money tonight for a drink. “I… I just… hey. Can you stand up?”
The Czech had laughed a sarcastic laugh, which would have even looked nice if it wasn’t because the nosebleed was already dripping over his lips.
“Stand up. Go away, boy. It won’t be the first time I sleep in an alley,”
Gigi had just dragged the other man to his feet.
“You can’t stay here.”
Pavel had just shrugged and wiped his nose with his sleeve. “So where are you going to take me?”
“To my place. At least you’ll have a roof over your head.”
They had walked the cold streets of Prague to the room Gigi was crashing in. All the way, the Italian had watched Pavel get more and more anxious. By the time they had got to the room, Pavel was funny and horny and was already fumbling with Gigi’s pants.
“Hey, hey…” Gigi had started out, completely confused. “You don’t have to do this.”
But the Czech was already on his knees.
“I wanna blow you. I’m gonna blow you. You give me place to stay, I’ll blow you. Before you ask me to.”
Gigi wasn’t even aroused, but everything changed when his limp cock was completely engulfed by Pavel’s sweet mouth.
He had blown him like he was used to it. The blonde knew all the tricks and knew how to use his tongue…
He had not let Gigi come. Instead, when he had tasted precum, Pavel had undressed himself and spread himself on the bed, giving the Italian a nice view of his arsehole.
“Come on. You like this, huh? You like boys, pretty Italian kid? Fuck me. Fuck me, go on.”
Gigi had complied with everything. He had fucked Pavel when he had asked to; he had gone faster when Pavel had moaned it. And, the next morning, when they had both woken up in a mess of soiled sheets, he had asked the Czech not to go, and had complied with getting him a fix. Everything just to get Pavel to travel around with him. In spite of his addictions and problems.
To have him on his bed. Like he is now.
“Are you keeping the job?” Pavel asks. His hazy eyes show a glint of sadness.
Gigi gives him a weak smile.
“Yes."
Pavel looks away. “What about me?”
“You can be a roadie. For now. You’ll be with me. Perhaps I can persuade them to let you be our opening act.”
“Thanks. You’ll be famous.”
Gigi caresses the golden mane. “No. We’ll be famous. Both of us.”
Pavel smiles, his little, sad smile.
“We should celebrate."
And, even though Gigi’s happy to have his lover near, happy to make love to him, he can’t help but feeling his stomach twist when he kisses Pavel and tastes blood, alcohol, and what he suspects is another man’s semen. He struggles to fight back tears when Pavel takes off his shirt and Gigi can see more needle-marks all over his arms, fresh scratches over his ribcage, and new bruises over his hips. When Pavel takes off his jeans and Gigi notices the bruises are dangerously close to the Czech’s groin, he cannot keep silent anymore.
“Who did that to you?”
“It doesn’t matter, Gigi.”
“Yes, it does.”
But Pavel has had his heroin fix, and the haze on his eyes seems to envelop him now.
“Nobody did, Gigi. Nobody. I got good stuff, and I’m celebrating with you. You’re gonna be a rockstar. So, come on, celebrate with me.”
And, as Pavel slowly impales himself on Gigi’s cock, and the Italian sees him moving and moaning loving words in his language, so different from the Czech, he lets his tears flow freely, wishing for a night when his lover will finally be safe in his arms.
To be continued