[Original] Sing For Me, PG, General
Dec. 19th, 2005 08:04 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
meiface.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
chineseinkTitle: Sing For Me
Fandom: Original
Pairing: gen (implied yaoicest?)
Rating: PG
Claimer: Mine, bitch.
All that glitters is not gold; the life of a rock star is not easy and sometimes there's no way out. Seeking redemption or only searching for an temporary escape?
Notes: Written first for an English assignment in 11th grade, then submitted to a short story contest. It won first prize, God knows why.
Sing For Me
by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
meitachi
The bottle crashed against the wall, shattering and sending shards of glass skittering across the carpeted floor. Violet eyes directed a narrowed glare in the general direction of the door before clamping shut against the acute pain...
“I wish they would stop screaming,” he muttered to himself. He was sitting on the floor, slumped against the wall opposite the door, knees drawn up to his chest and his head hung low. One arm rested atop his knees, the other lay to his side, both hands clenched in fists.
Screams continued to echo in his head.
“Shut up!”
He shoved his hands through his hair and grasped his skull with a desperate intensity.
“Make it stop…”
He was dressed in black leather. His pants hugged his hips and were cut straight to fall over his black boots. His top was sleeveless and tight, with a low-cut V-neck that laced up with matching black string. On his hands were fingerless black gloves. Somewhere there was an accompanying leather jacket that fell to mid-calf; maybe strewn across the ratty couch in the corner. Or buried under the wads of paper he’d balled up and thrown across the room. Maybe he’d even left it in the wings of the stage for some roadie to take; he certainly didn’t remember picking it up after tossing it aside in the middle of the show.
They were still screaming.
He cracked open an eye and stared blankly at the bleak room. The only light was cast by the five bare bulbs framing the mirror of the vanity that sat beside the couch. There were actually seven bulbs but two had burnt out. The dim light reflected off the glass shards scattered near the door, highlighting the jagged edges of the largest piece of the broken bottle, the bottom. He eyed it and felt it a pang of regret. Well, it’d been empty anyway. The carpeting was vomit green in color and so worn he may as well have been sitting on the concrete ground beneath it. The air smelled of smoke and the walls were stained a yellow-gray, testament to the constant streams of nicotine that flowed throughout the room.
A small, bitter smile made its way to his face. He freed a hand from the confines of his tousled blonde hair (dyed) and traced it down his cheek until he felt the microphone attached to his headset. Sing for me, he thought.
He dropped his hands to fumble in his pocket even though he knew the pack wouldn’t be there; it was merely habit. Nothing could have really fit in those skin-tight pants anyway. Still, he cursed and stumbled to his feet and made his way to the vanity. Lying on top was his half-empty pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He smiled wanly to his reflection as he lit the white stick of cancer. The lighter was a deep purple. Matched his eyes.
Outside, he could still hear the screams. So demanding. Going on and on without pause. He really wished they’d stop.
He took a drag of his cigarette.
Mm… The screams muted almost instantly, easing out of his mind until he could think again. He pulled out a drawer, idly wondering if he had another bottle lying around somewhere. A quick look down confirmed his expectation: his stash was depleted. “Damn,” he said softly. Oh well. He inhaled again. He’d be okay.
There was a knock on the door.
He turned his head languidly. “What?”
The door eased open. He wondered if he should tell the pretty blonde (not natural either) clad in a tight white tee and baggy white pants in the doorway to watch out for the glass. The boy, who hardly looked legal but was actually a good many years over the age limit, found out for himself, hearing a crunching sound beneath his boots when he stepped inside. He looked down and then at figure standing next to the vanity.
“Throw another temper tantrum?” he mocked.
He got no answer, as the other continued to puff at his cigarette. Finally, “What do you want, Aniki?”
Aniki looked at him with cold green eyes. “Get out there. Everyone’s waiting. It doesn’t take fifteen minutes between songs, even including set change.”
He finished his cigarette and took a perverse pleasure in grinding it out on the already scarred surface of the vanity rather than in the ashtray provided on the other side of the couch. Taking his time, knowing Aniki was growing angrier every second he was forced to wait for an answer, he pulled another carcinogenic stick out of his pack and lit it, looking deliberately at the other boy the entire time.
That was the last straw of Aniki. He stalked across the room, indifferent to the further crushing of the glass shards, and stopped a foot away from the leather-clad figure, eyes narrowed in a glare. He yanked the cigarette out of the clasp of smirking lips and said flatly, “Quit. You need your voice.”
Didi leaned forward until mere inches separated the two boys’ faces and stared into those fathomless green eyes. “So?” He plucked his cigarette from unresisting fingers. Turning, he stepped back, tossing casually over his shoulder, “You’re blushing.” He rummaged through the drawers of the vanity.
“No, I’m pissed.”
“Tough.” He emerged triumphant from his search, bearing a tube of vanilla-flavored lip gloss, and proceeded to unscrew the cap. As Aniki watched, he removed the cigarette and held it between two fingers of his free hand, leaning forward to peer at the mirror as he applied a scanty coat of gloss to his lips with the other.
“Does this mean you’re going out?”
He dropped his hand and examined his reflection. “Maybe. Get me some eyeliner.”
Aniki dug out a pencil from his pocket and tossed it. “Yes, master,” he said sarcastically.
There was silence in the room for a few long moments as Aniki watched the other boy line his eyes with kohl. He slid his hand to his waist and flicked on the small black pack strapped to his waistband. “He’s coming,” he said into his headset.
There was a crackle of static. “Good. They won’t quit screaming. Tell him to hurry the hell up.”
Didi turned around. “Well, isn’t that a bit presumptuous?” he asked, arching a brow. “I only said ‘maybe.’”
“Di.”
“I hate this you know,” he said, flicking the ashes off the end of his cigarette as he walked toward Aniki. He passed him and stepped through the open door into the even dimmer light of the hall. “I have no idea why the hell I do it.”
Aniki followed him, pulling the door shut behind them with a slam. “Then quit,” he said without qualms. “After tonight.”
Violet eyes looked forward in the gloom. “Maybe I will.” They walked into the light of the bustling backstage area, electrical cords snaking across the ground like a tumultuous sea, with dozens of people rushing about, shouting orders and lodging complaints. Didi looked around with a cynical gaze but refrained from commenting. He turned to the boy by his side. “Play with me, Aniki,” he said with a gleam in his eye.
“No. Josef’s already got his stuff plugged in.”
Didi narrowed his eyes. “You’re better than him. I don’t know why you won’t play with me.”
“I’m a bodyguard, Didi. I don’t do onstage. At least, not in those terms.”
“I want you up there.” He crossed his arms, cigarette dangling limply from his lips, and glared at Aniki. He dropped the ultimatum. “Or I don’t go up there either.”
The other boy whirled to return his scowl, matching it in ire and intensity. “Fine,” he bit out. “I’ll get my guitar. But I want you up there in five minutes, tops.” He started to turn away, but paused and warned, “Just remember you won’t always get what you want.”
“But I do now.” Didi smirked. “That’s all that matters.” He knew life was a bitch. He didn’t know why he bothered with this anymore. He glanced around him as Aniki stalked off to fetch that guitar his younger brother made him drag along everywhere. Didi shrugged. Aniki was good. The best. It would’ve been a waste if he didn’t keep in practice.
“Didi!” A frantic, relieved-looking woman with candy-apple red hair rushed up to him. He sighed and stood immobile as she clasped a black choker around his neck, ran a brush through his hair, and spritzed hairspray in his general vicinity. He covered his mouth and coughed. Funny how hairspray could do that to him, but not smoking. Speaking of which… He glared at the woman. Didn’t she know hairspray was flammable? Irritated, he dropped the remains of his cigarette on the ground and stamped out the butt with the toe of his boot. He knew he should’ve taken the rest of the pack with him. The woman was flipping through the multiple chains she had draped over one arm—there had to be at least eight—flashes of gold and silver catching the light before he finally saved her the trouble and lifted a thin silver chain with a simple cross off her arm.
“Good choice,” she applauded brightly and helped him slip it over his head as if he couldn’t manage the task by himself. Why didn’t they ever help him with things he needed assistance in? As she fretted about his eyes, he rolled the features in question (“They look great, really,” she assured, “it’s just that Marge will be so upset, you know, she’s so paranoid about anyone touching your makeup except her and well…I don’t suppose you have time to go see her, it’s been so long already, and they won’t stop screaming, it’s really best if you get out there as soon as possible and I’ll just distract Marge or something…”) and wondered how she managed to breathe between those rapid-fire sentences. Wait, no, it was all one long sentence, really, wasn’t it?
Aniki appeared at his side again, guitar slung across his torso, shooing away the bottled redhead. “I told you to get out there,” he growled.
He shrugged. “I got waylaid.” But there was no helping it now; he’d have to go out there and face the screaming crowds. He could feel a headache creeping into his mind already. Commitments sucked, he thought and pictured that bleak, dirty room with its worn carpet and stained walls and balled up wads of paper containing attempts at lyrics scattered all across the floor. Or were they attempts at a suicide note? He couldn’t remember. They hadn’t been successful in any case. He saw that vanity with its two broken bulbs and its cracked mirror and burnt dresser top and lying there were his cigarettes. He saw the broken glass by the door and the ratty couch in the corner with an ashtray perched on its arm and his leather trench coat somewhere in that room, maybe.
“Let’s go.”
He followed Aniki onto the blackened stage. The lights were out. He took his place at the front, automatically stationing himself in front of the center mic. His headset was off; he wouldn’t need it for this set. The screams were still persisting, assaulting, following him everywhere. They wouldn’t stop, even with the lights out. He took a moment to promise himself that he would quit, right after tonight’s show ended. And after he had another cigarette.
The lights flickered on, dancing blue and violet and white, he grabbed the microphone, and the screams got louder. So demanding. He plastered a wide smile on his face, knowing it was being projected straight up to the ten-by-fifteen foot screen above the stage.
He yelled, “Sing for me!”
--
Started/Finished: 12.29.03
Edited: February 2005 (with help of the ever wonderfulth_nightengale)
--
More notes:
Influenced heavily by this picture of Gackt.
Aniki means "older brother" in Japanese and didi means "younger brother" in Chinese. Yep, the two boys are related. It was a private joke of mine to use these names; a joke a later had to explain to curious judges for the discussion workshop before the awards dinner. Slightly awkward but all right in the end.
Fandom: Original
Pairing: gen (implied yaoicest?)
Rating: PG
Claimer: Mine, bitch.
All that glitters is not gold; the life of a rock star is not easy and sometimes there's no way out. Seeking redemption or only searching for an temporary escape?
Notes: Written first for an English assignment in 11th grade, then submitted to a short story contest. It won first prize, God knows why.
Sing For Me
by
meitachiThe bottle crashed against the wall, shattering and sending shards of glass skittering across the carpeted floor. Violet eyes directed a narrowed glare in the general direction of the door before clamping shut against the acute pain...
“I wish they would stop screaming,” he muttered to himself. He was sitting on the floor, slumped against the wall opposite the door, knees drawn up to his chest and his head hung low. One arm rested atop his knees, the other lay to his side, both hands clenched in fists.
Screams continued to echo in his head.
“Shut up!”
He shoved his hands through his hair and grasped his skull with a desperate intensity.
“Make it stop…”
He was dressed in black leather. His pants hugged his hips and were cut straight to fall over his black boots. His top was sleeveless and tight, with a low-cut V-neck that laced up with matching black string. On his hands were fingerless black gloves. Somewhere there was an accompanying leather jacket that fell to mid-calf; maybe strewn across the ratty couch in the corner. Or buried under the wads of paper he’d balled up and thrown across the room. Maybe he’d even left it in the wings of the stage for some roadie to take; he certainly didn’t remember picking it up after tossing it aside in the middle of the show.
They were still screaming.
He cracked open an eye and stared blankly at the bleak room. The only light was cast by the five bare bulbs framing the mirror of the vanity that sat beside the couch. There were actually seven bulbs but two had burnt out. The dim light reflected off the glass shards scattered near the door, highlighting the jagged edges of the largest piece of the broken bottle, the bottom. He eyed it and felt it a pang of regret. Well, it’d been empty anyway. The carpeting was vomit green in color and so worn he may as well have been sitting on the concrete ground beneath it. The air smelled of smoke and the walls were stained a yellow-gray, testament to the constant streams of nicotine that flowed throughout the room.
A small, bitter smile made its way to his face. He freed a hand from the confines of his tousled blonde hair (dyed) and traced it down his cheek until he felt the microphone attached to his headset. Sing for me, he thought.
He dropped his hands to fumble in his pocket even though he knew the pack wouldn’t be there; it was merely habit. Nothing could have really fit in those skin-tight pants anyway. Still, he cursed and stumbled to his feet and made his way to the vanity. Lying on top was his half-empty pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He smiled wanly to his reflection as he lit the white stick of cancer. The lighter was a deep purple. Matched his eyes.
Outside, he could still hear the screams. So demanding. Going on and on without pause. He really wished they’d stop.
He took a drag of his cigarette.
Mm… The screams muted almost instantly, easing out of his mind until he could think again. He pulled out a drawer, idly wondering if he had another bottle lying around somewhere. A quick look down confirmed his expectation: his stash was depleted. “Damn,” he said softly. Oh well. He inhaled again. He’d be okay.
There was a knock on the door.
He turned his head languidly. “What?”
The door eased open. He wondered if he should tell the pretty blonde (not natural either) clad in a tight white tee and baggy white pants in the doorway to watch out for the glass. The boy, who hardly looked legal but was actually a good many years over the age limit, found out for himself, hearing a crunching sound beneath his boots when he stepped inside. He looked down and then at figure standing next to the vanity.
“Throw another temper tantrum?” he mocked.
He got no answer, as the other continued to puff at his cigarette. Finally, “What do you want, Aniki?”
Aniki looked at him with cold green eyes. “Get out there. Everyone’s waiting. It doesn’t take fifteen minutes between songs, even including set change.”
He finished his cigarette and took a perverse pleasure in grinding it out on the already scarred surface of the vanity rather than in the ashtray provided on the other side of the couch. Taking his time, knowing Aniki was growing angrier every second he was forced to wait for an answer, he pulled another carcinogenic stick out of his pack and lit it, looking deliberately at the other boy the entire time.
That was the last straw of Aniki. He stalked across the room, indifferent to the further crushing of the glass shards, and stopped a foot away from the leather-clad figure, eyes narrowed in a glare. He yanked the cigarette out of the clasp of smirking lips and said flatly, “Quit. You need your voice.”
Didi leaned forward until mere inches separated the two boys’ faces and stared into those fathomless green eyes. “So?” He plucked his cigarette from unresisting fingers. Turning, he stepped back, tossing casually over his shoulder, “You’re blushing.” He rummaged through the drawers of the vanity.
“No, I’m pissed.”
“Tough.” He emerged triumphant from his search, bearing a tube of vanilla-flavored lip gloss, and proceeded to unscrew the cap. As Aniki watched, he removed the cigarette and held it between two fingers of his free hand, leaning forward to peer at the mirror as he applied a scanty coat of gloss to his lips with the other.
“Does this mean you’re going out?”
He dropped his hand and examined his reflection. “Maybe. Get me some eyeliner.”
Aniki dug out a pencil from his pocket and tossed it. “Yes, master,” he said sarcastically.
There was silence in the room for a few long moments as Aniki watched the other boy line his eyes with kohl. He slid his hand to his waist and flicked on the small black pack strapped to his waistband. “He’s coming,” he said into his headset.
There was a crackle of static. “Good. They won’t quit screaming. Tell him to hurry the hell up.”
Didi turned around. “Well, isn’t that a bit presumptuous?” he asked, arching a brow. “I only said ‘maybe.’”
“Di.”
“I hate this you know,” he said, flicking the ashes off the end of his cigarette as he walked toward Aniki. He passed him and stepped through the open door into the even dimmer light of the hall. “I have no idea why the hell I do it.”
Aniki followed him, pulling the door shut behind them with a slam. “Then quit,” he said without qualms. “After tonight.”
Violet eyes looked forward in the gloom. “Maybe I will.” They walked into the light of the bustling backstage area, electrical cords snaking across the ground like a tumultuous sea, with dozens of people rushing about, shouting orders and lodging complaints. Didi looked around with a cynical gaze but refrained from commenting. He turned to the boy by his side. “Play with me, Aniki,” he said with a gleam in his eye.
“No. Josef’s already got his stuff plugged in.”
Didi narrowed his eyes. “You’re better than him. I don’t know why you won’t play with me.”
“I’m a bodyguard, Didi. I don’t do onstage. At least, not in those terms.”
“I want you up there.” He crossed his arms, cigarette dangling limply from his lips, and glared at Aniki. He dropped the ultimatum. “Or I don’t go up there either.”
The other boy whirled to return his scowl, matching it in ire and intensity. “Fine,” he bit out. “I’ll get my guitar. But I want you up there in five minutes, tops.” He started to turn away, but paused and warned, “Just remember you won’t always get what you want.”
“But I do now.” Didi smirked. “That’s all that matters.” He knew life was a bitch. He didn’t know why he bothered with this anymore. He glanced around him as Aniki stalked off to fetch that guitar his younger brother made him drag along everywhere. Didi shrugged. Aniki was good. The best. It would’ve been a waste if he didn’t keep in practice.
“Didi!” A frantic, relieved-looking woman with candy-apple red hair rushed up to him. He sighed and stood immobile as she clasped a black choker around his neck, ran a brush through his hair, and spritzed hairspray in his general vicinity. He covered his mouth and coughed. Funny how hairspray could do that to him, but not smoking. Speaking of which… He glared at the woman. Didn’t she know hairspray was flammable? Irritated, he dropped the remains of his cigarette on the ground and stamped out the butt with the toe of his boot. He knew he should’ve taken the rest of the pack with him. The woman was flipping through the multiple chains she had draped over one arm—there had to be at least eight—flashes of gold and silver catching the light before he finally saved her the trouble and lifted a thin silver chain with a simple cross off her arm.
“Good choice,” she applauded brightly and helped him slip it over his head as if he couldn’t manage the task by himself. Why didn’t they ever help him with things he needed assistance in? As she fretted about his eyes, he rolled the features in question (“They look great, really,” she assured, “it’s just that Marge will be so upset, you know, she’s so paranoid about anyone touching your makeup except her and well…I don’t suppose you have time to go see her, it’s been so long already, and they won’t stop screaming, it’s really best if you get out there as soon as possible and I’ll just distract Marge or something…”) and wondered how she managed to breathe between those rapid-fire sentences. Wait, no, it was all one long sentence, really, wasn’t it?
Aniki appeared at his side again, guitar slung across his torso, shooing away the bottled redhead. “I told you to get out there,” he growled.
He shrugged. “I got waylaid.” But there was no helping it now; he’d have to go out there and face the screaming crowds. He could feel a headache creeping into his mind already. Commitments sucked, he thought and pictured that bleak, dirty room with its worn carpet and stained walls and balled up wads of paper containing attempts at lyrics scattered all across the floor. Or were they attempts at a suicide note? He couldn’t remember. They hadn’t been successful in any case. He saw that vanity with its two broken bulbs and its cracked mirror and burnt dresser top and lying there were his cigarettes. He saw the broken glass by the door and the ratty couch in the corner with an ashtray perched on its arm and his leather trench coat somewhere in that room, maybe.
“Let’s go.”
He followed Aniki onto the blackened stage. The lights were out. He took his place at the front, automatically stationing himself in front of the center mic. His headset was off; he wouldn’t need it for this set. The screams were still persisting, assaulting, following him everywhere. They wouldn’t stop, even with the lights out. He took a moment to promise himself that he would quit, right after tonight’s show ended. And after he had another cigarette.
The lights flickered on, dancing blue and violet and white, he grabbed the microphone, and the screams got louder. So demanding. He plastered a wide smile on his face, knowing it was being projected straight up to the ten-by-fifteen foot screen above the stage.
He yelled, “Sing for me!”
--
Started/Finished: 12.29.03
Edited: February 2005 (with help of the ever wonderful
th_nightengale)--
More notes:
Influenced heavily by this picture of Gackt.
Aniki means "older brother" in Japanese and didi means "younger brother" in Chinese. Yep, the two boys are related. It was a private joke of mine to use these names; a joke a later had to explain to curious judges for the discussion workshop before the awards dinner. Slightly awkward but all right in the end.
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