Introduction:

The day had been oppressive, the air dense and stagnant, making the warm night breeze that brushed through Ville's dark, curling locks, all the sweeter. He paused for a moment, his skinny limbs wound tightly around smooth, steel beams, as he glanced down at the cars bustling along the highway beneath him. Perspiration trickled over his brow, threatening to sting his wide green eyes as the wind kissed his skin. Its gentle touch more affectionate than any he'd received the night before, when he'd humiliated himself beyond belief. Of course, at the time, Ville had chosen to remain blind, not wanting to see the writing on the wall. He should've known better. He did know better. There was no excuse for carrying on as shamelessly as he had. Certainly, Ville had been around long enough to distinguish between genuine emotion and a causal casual fuck. Yet once again, he'd thrown himself body, heart, and soul before the one he pined for, only to be met with rejection. It was his own fault, yet knowing this didn't ease the bitter ache in his chest. Didn't help mend his shattered ego.

Halfway up the enormous mountain of metal now, Ville could barely hear his friends on the sidewalk below, bellowing in vain for him to descend. Knowing well that they'd be pissed whether he continued on or not, he began scaling upward again. All the while, picturing Mige, pacing below, cursing and muttering beneath his breath as he waited anxiously for Ville to come down. The burlier man was probably beside himself, even though he'd witnessed more than his fair share of his friend's antics. But Ville didn't need anyone playing mother hen right now. Right now, he needed this. Needed to tackle the rest of the bridge, until he had it conquered.

With one bony hand, Ville reached high above his head and grabbed firm hold of a metal rung. Slowly dragging his lanky form upward, straining his arms with every painful inch he advanced. Searching carefully with his boots for the surest position on each new beam, as he ascended with determination. What a rush it was, to cheat death like this. It was far better than any drug Ville could imagine. With each maneuver, his heart pounded harder, until it was hammering in a mad frenzy against his ribs. How easy it would be to lose his footing. One slight error, one misjudged step, and his balance would be lost. His gaunt body would plummet to the unyielding pavement below. Broken and twisted. A smashed puddle of splintered bone, torn flesh and blood. He wondered if the one who'd turned him away so coldly, would even flinch when he heard the news? Would he think Ville died for the love of him? At that, Ville coughed out a sarcastic laugh, feeling the growing agitation in his lungs. The other man would probably be amused, or he'd just shake his head with disgust at Ville's foolishness. But, it didn't matter one way or another. Ville had no intention of dying. Not tonight.

When finally he'd made it to the top of the bridge, Ville perched there, a wide plank of metal between his thighs, swinging his long, leather-clad legs to and fro in the air beneath him. He tilted his pale face and stared up at the black, starless sky, still panting from exertion. Only at times like this, did Ville feel truly alive, even the raspy intake of each breath couldn't diminish his high. He could gain perspective sitting here above the rest of the world, so small and insignificant in the grand scheme of the universe, yet awake to every sensation. Excited by every sight, every faint noise whispering around him. It was almost as if, in taking such risks, Ville was able to drive away the pain he kept bottled up inside and truly exist. For one or two glorious minutes, he could taste life to its fullest flavor, untainted by the darkness he carried within.

His skin sticky and moist with sweat, Ville peeled his soiled black shirt off over his head and tossed it through the air with a slight grin, uncaring of where it landed. Unable to prevent his thoughts from straying back to the man who'd rejected him, Ville lifted a slender hand to his own lips, brushing two fingers over their curvy softness. What was it, that made the thought of kissing him so repulsive? He wondered if at any given moment, the other man had even been tempted to possess his mouth. How could he not have been, when there was no mistaking the raw hunger in Maynard's dark, hazel eyes?

****************************************

The Night Before:

Hidden in the shadows side-stage, Ville relaxed, leaning his weary body back against Mige's much bulkier form. HIM's set had ended only minutes before, leaving both men physically drained and drenched in sweat. It hadn't been easy, convincing Mige to remain behind with him. Like the rest of his band mates, the huskier man had been exhausted by their performance. Opening day of the music festival had been greeted with sweltering heat and dense humidity, a combination potent enough to make even the sturdiest of men wilt.

Late in HIM's set, the temperature soared, becoming so intolerable at one point, that Ville stripped down until he was barefoot, center stage. His emaciated body exposed but for the snug leather pants he wore. Every other article of clothing had been tossed into the crowd for Ville's own entertainment.

More and more recently, Ville couldn't fight off the distinct feeling that he'd spiraled off into the fucking Twilight Zone. It never ceased to amaze him, how enthusiastic fans could be. How lunatic...even rude. He loved them. He hated them. He lived in fear of being ripped to shreds by their eager hands, much like his shirt had been the second it descended into the ravenous mob. There was something both sickening and sweet about seeing the little girls, screaming and clawing at each other in the first few rows, each bent on taking home some small token. It was surreal, the way they wanted him...the way they begged for his cock and offered up their blood...their lives. All willing to 'join' him in death like some mindless fucking sheep crying out to be slaughtered. It was madness, a madness that sent adreneline adrenaline coarsing through his system and inflated his ego.

By the end of HIM's performance, Ville's asthmatic lungs ached from breathing, from sucking in the thick, heavy air. Yet still he remained relatively undaunted, driven to give the audience what they most wanted, even if it meant the death of him. Wasn't that what they wanted anyway? For him to be their martyr? To see him fullfill his own prophesy?

Not that Ville gave a shit one way or another. If he did, he wouldn't be committing slow suicide with his incessant smoking...wouldn't be blowing coke up his nose...or wallowing in his own bitterness. If he gave a shit, the thought of death wouldn't make his dick so hard and full that it throbbed painfully against his leather pants. However, Ville wouldn't give his audience that now, not yet. He refused to be hauled off stage in an oxygen mask, or worse yet, a fucking body bag, as Maynard was making an entrance. No... He had something much different in mind.

Earlier that same afternoon, Ville had stolen a glimpse of the night's line up sheet -- making note of the fact that Tool would be taking the stage directly following HIM. Strategically scheduled to appear on-stage at dusk, no doubt. Since Maynard was well known for concealing himself during shows; singing with his back to audiences, creeping around under a blanket of gloom, hiding behind stage props ...

This small discovery set the intricate wheels in Ville's head in motion, made his body buzz with excitement. There was something about Maynard that had always fascinated Ville. Part of the draw Ville felt stemmed from his great respect for the other man's talent. The vulgar beauty of Maynard's music sucked him down into an ungodly realm. The singer's molten-honey voice haunted and seduced, rippled in waves through Ville's body like an orgasm. Few performers had ever been capable of reaching down into his soul and gutting him, in the same, violent manner Maynard was capable of. But that wasn't all that intrigued Ville about the man, it was much more than his gift for music. It was his energy, the raw sexuality and charisma Maynard seemed to possess. The dark wit he'd seen displayed on the rare occasions he was interviewed.

Sighing heavily, Ville let his body go limp against Mige as they waited for Tool to arrive on stage, warmth spreading through his stomach at the feel of Mige's large, calloused hands smoothing their way down over his lower abdomen. His eyes at half-mast, Ville rubbed his own, boyish cheek against Mige's scruffy face, "glad you decided to stay with me for awhile, Mige."

"Yeah, don't thank me yet, Ville. Like I said, I'm not staying for the whole show." The man's words came out, raspy and irritated, though his fingers continued to caress Ville tenderly as he spoke.

Ignoring the bite to his friend's words, Ville grinned sleepily and wriggled his ass back against Mige, stilling only when he finally felt the other man's cock twinge against his crack. He loved Mige -- loved that he could tease the man endlessly without ever having to follow through. Loved that his friend knew him inside and out, and still chose to care. They had the perfect friendship.

Affectionate and genuine with a definitive sexual charge.

Faint mumbling and foot falls suddenly echoing behind them, Ville tensed, heartbeat quickening as the sounds advanced, becoming more and more decipherable. Low voices. Quiet laughter. The thud of boots against the hard flooring. And then, there he was. Maynard. Making his way toward them as he approached the stage, the rest of Tool in tow. His hair, a warm chestnut brown, reaching more than halfway down his bare, muscled torso. Expression calm as he stepped up alongside the two other men.

Ville clasped Mige's hand, his spidery fingers twining nervously around his friend's, as he stared down at Maynard's distinctive, hawk-like profile. Sweeping his hungry jade eyes lower, he gaped at the man's stage attire, the turquoise pants slung so low, a hint of dark pubic hair peered from the waistband. Through the light-weight fabric of Maynard's pants, Ville traced along the contour of the other man's balls with appreciative eyes. Aching to feel their weight against his tongue. He bit down hard on his lower lip, muffling the groan of frustration that threatened to escape at the sight.

Tightening his hold on Mige's hand, as he battled the urge to reach out and run his polished finger tips through the coarse, curling hairs -- the overwhelming desire to slide to his knees and nuzzle between the other man's taut thighs...to bask in his rich, male scent.

At that very moment, Maynard turned his hazel eyes upward, catching Ville's intent stare, the corners of his full lips twitching into a slight grin as he nodded an acknowledgment. Like a frightened deer caught in the glare of headlights, Ville held the man's confident gaze. Stunned and shaken. Wondering if torment was written all over his pallid face -- if Maynard could possibly read the thoughts racing through his mind. Should he speak now? Wait till after the show? Ville held his breath, torn. Then, as swiftly as the band had approached, they were gone again. The entire group strutted out across the stage and formed a small circle, leaving Ville breathless in their wake.

"He's really something, isn't he?" Ville whispered hoarsely, dazed from the brief encounter.

"I hope that was a rhetorical question," Mige paused, grabbed Ville's bare shoulders and spun him around. "What the fuck are you up to, Ville? Don't tell me you're after THAT guy's cock...or wait...no...you want his heart, don't you?" He furrowed his heavy brow, dark eyes searing into Ville's, tone laced heavily with sarcasm, "'cause I'll tell you right now, you're not gonna get EITHER. The ONLY thing you're going to do, is make a complete ass of yourself.... Again."

"Why are you always suspicious, Mige?" Rolling his big green eyes, Ville reached up and pinched Mige's fleshy cheek. "I'm not UP to anything. I just want to meet Maynard...if I can."

"You're nuts," shaking his head, Mige grimaced. "Seriously, Ville, your fucking escapades are gonna be the death of me. I can't hang around to watch this...it's too painful. I'll be back at the hotel if you need me."

"No. Mige, don't go yet...come one ON...I DO need you." As if to emphasize this fact, Ville held fast to his friend's arm, his expression that of a petulent child.

Mige shook his arm free and grumbled, "Uh-uh. Not this time. I think I'll just wait and read the bleeding heart lyrics."

"Oh...fuck you then," his glossy lips formed a small pout, as he watched Mige stomp away. Surprised when his friend didn't halt in his tracks, he called out once more, his tone sweeter this time, "hey, wait!"

Still barefoot, Ville scurried over to where Mige had finally halted and threw his arms around the other man's trunk-like neck, "I'm sorry...don't leave all pissed off?"

His face creased with concern, Mige nodded, slinking his beefy arms around Ville's waist, "be careful, Ville...don't get yourself into any trouble."

Ville mashed his own mouth down sloppily against Mige's, kissing him hard for a long moment, smearing the paint from his lips against his friend's, "I promise. No trouble..." Ville drew back, eyes glinting mischievously beneath his black lashes, "I'll stop by your room tonight, if it's not too late, all right?"

Mige nodded his consent, smiling faintly. Even when they argued, deep down, Ville never doubted that Mige had the best of intentions. That he only acted and spoke out of concern.

The loud beating of drums cut through their shared moment of silence, an electric guitar screeching, as Maynard began to sing. His voice rich and full of contrast, words belted out swift and curt like a mantra.

"Wear your grudge like a crown of negativity.
Calculate what we will or will not tolerate.
Desperate to control all and everything.
Unable to forgive your scarlet lettermen.

Clutch it like a cornerstone. Otherwise it all comes down.
Justify denials and grip it to the lonesome end.
Clutch it like a cornerstone. Otherwise it all comes down.
Terrified of being wrong. Ultimatum prison cell."

"Fuckme...I could cum just listening to that voice," Ville's hot breath brushed against his friend's neck, sending an obvious shudder through Mige's body.

"Yeah, that's not saying a whole lot, Ville... You blow your load every time you hear a funeral march," a wide grin split Mige's rugged face, as he watched the other's eyes widen with astonishment.

Ville's jaw dropped before he finally broke up, choking on his own husky laughter, "you're such an asshole."

"Go, Ville... get back over there and watch your concert."

********************

Long after Mige left, Ville stood alone, watching from the sidelines as Maynard performed. Dark green eyes straining through the dim stage lighting, following the other man's every movement...every cryptic and lewd gesture...as the verse spilled from his full lips. Maynard's deep, wavering voice almost hypnotizing him, soothing away Ville's initial anxiety at being near to a man he'd admired from a distance for such a long time. A man who'd sent the blood rushing to his cock, when finally he'd seen him in person. As soon as the set ended though, Ville's trepidation hit once again, full force. Anxiety gripped his chest. Maybe Mige was right? Maybe he WAS being foolish. He didn't even know what the hell to say, how to compliment Maynard without coming across like some star-struck groupie. The man probably didn't even know who the fuck Ville was.

As the band began to make their exit, Ville racked his brain, searching for the right words, grasping hopelessly for something witty to say. Anything. But his mind came up blank. He stood there, staring silently as Maynard approached. The man's gait slow and easy, naked torso slick with sweat. For a second, their eyes locked, Maynard's registering a flicker of recognition.

Fuck. He wished he hadn't smoked his last cigarette. Ville shifted his meager weight from one leg to the other, suddenly conscious of his bare feet, of his large, bony hands. For the first time in years, he felt awkward in his own skin...like some gawky teenager. Too tall. Too thin. Inadequate. He averted his gaze, feeling defeated. Knowing he wouldn't speak a word when Maynard passed.

"You're still here," a voice, soft and deep, snatched Ville back from his self-debasing thoughts. He blinked with surprise, finding himself gazing down directly into Maynard's long, angular face. For a moment, he was speechless, his stomach trembling as he sought out his own voice.

"Yeah, still here," Ville groaned inwardly at the stupidity of his response, a hot blush beginning its slow crawl up over his slender neck, brightening his unusually pale skin.

An eternity seemed to pass in the few seconds Maynard stood, silently appraising him with narrowed eyes, "I know you. You're with one of the bands. What's your name?"

"Ville. Ville Valo?" Squirming, feeling very much like a fly trapped under glass, Ville cleared his throat and ran one hand nervously over his exposed, hollowed stomach as if to recall Mige's comforting touch.

"Oh yeah...right...the Finnish guy. You sing all those ballads and shit, right?" Maynard shoved his damp hair back away from his face and glanced around at the roadies and stage hands bustling around them, "you've got a good voice."

"Thanks," he paused and wet his parched lips, his mouth feeling unusually dry, "we played the same festival once before. When you were singing with A Perfect Circle then..." Babbling. He was fucking babbling. Where the hell had his ego disappeared to, when he needed it most? He was an artist in his own right, after all. Why couldn't he shake the feeling that he was some piece of shit no one?

"Really? Huh... Maybe that's where I heard you sing then," the other man shrugged, seeming bored, "I've gotta get out of here. I'm sweating my balls off..."

In an attempt to keep his disappointment from being too apparent, Ville shifted his eyes back down to his feet and curled his toes against the sticky-hard floor, not realizing that Maynard had followed his gaze.

"Where the fuck are your shoes, man?" For the first time, Maynard grinned.

Ville smiled back in spite of himself, "I took them off."

"Yeah...well....obviously," shaking his head, Maynard turned to walk away, providing Ville with a glimpse of the vertebrae tattooed down the small of his back, just visible beneath the man's tangled brown locks. Without time to second guess himself, Ville quipped, the words spewing from his mouth before he could stifle them, "That's a strange observation coming from someone who hunkers around on stage wearing a thong."

Maynard hesitated, then glanced back over his shoulder, sly grin widening, "take a look at your feet. Hasn't anyone ever told you cleanliness is next to godliness?" With a self assurance that was obvious to Ville, the other man gestured toward the exit with a nod of his head, "come on kid, have a drink with me. I could use a little amusement."

As if being lead by some invisible leash, Ville followed...