Spotlight
by saabira
*Thanks to Kino for beta and other encouragements.
Prodigy. You're pretty positive that that is
the correct word. Nineteen years old and the best guitar player you've ever
played with, possibly the best ever. You have a pretty healthy ego, so you have
to acknowledge that you are pretty good as well, and he doesn't play any
instruments that you can't play yourself. His voice is pretty fucking fantastic,
but you're the lead, so that says something. But as good as you are, you're not
nineteen fucking years old.
And, hell, maybe if you'd been able to finish high school, you'd have been
offered a full scholarship to a prestigious music school, but that's neither
here nor there.
You light another cigarette, and continue watching Kyle laying down his riffs in
the sound booth across the room. Matt is nodding along enthusiastically, and
some of the other techs have crowded into the room just to hear him play.
People- you- love to watch him, and that can't be a bad thing; you are trying to
get famous with this.
Honestly, the whole thing should make you jealous as all hell.
It doesn't. All it makes you want to do is sink to your knees and suck him off.
Or maybe find out if his stubble feels as delicious on the inside of your thighs
as you imagine it will.
Paul comes over to you then, sinking down close on the couch and steals your
cigarette with one hand and strokes the other discreetly up your thigh.
You're feeling a lot of things right then, as you watch Kyle play, and jealously
ain't one of them.
A week passes and one night Paul tells you he loves you for the first time. You
aren't having sex at the moment, so you believe him and say it back. You believe
you, too.
Being in love doesn't automatically stop noticing the way Kyle's lips pout when
he concentrating on the chords, or the spontaneous way he comes up with amazing
melodies when he's just fucking around at a piano. But you don't do anything
about it, either.
~
It's too easy, really, to find yourselves drunk together. There's always alcohol
at these post-show parties. Beer, tequila, vodka, and pot. Lots of pot.
Apparently, rock stars get it for free, and you think you qualify as one.
Definitely now that all your concerts sell-out and you hear your songs on the
radio without even searching for them.
If this is being rich and famous -free booze and drugs- then you don't have a
problem with that. You work fucking hard for this and you think you've earned
it.
So, no, not too difficult to end up alone and drunk- just you and Kyle in this
decadent hotel suite. The room is nice- big and spinning slightly (not enough to
make you dizzy but enough to remind you that you had an entire six-pack to
yourself), and you don't remember where everyone else went, but that's not
important.
Kyle is lying, shirtless, on the sofa, singing along, loudly, to REM -that's me
in the corner, that's me in the spotlight- and everything washes over you in a
sudden rush that almost makes you gasp. You didn't even realize you wanted him
this badly, but don't even want to try to fight it.
Standing up takes a second- your leg is kind of asleep- but you manage it, and
make your way over to where he lies.
"Kyle?"
And he stops singing and smiles huge at you. He is really high. You recognize
the look in his eye easily
"Hey, Kyle."
"Hey," he repeats. "You want?" He offers you the joint, smoldering weakly
between two fingers.
You shake your head, but take it from him anyway and snuff it out in the ashtray
on the coffee table. And you're working on momentum now, when you lean forward
and claim his lips with your own. Your mouths are slightly open and he exhales
into your mouth, smoky sweet air. He doesn't pull away, and you're certainly
content to kiss him like this, and he seems content to let you.
He extends a tentative tongue- licking softly at your mouth, which thrills you
no end- testing the waters as it were, and when his hands, with their long thick
fingers come up to grasp the back of your head, you take that as an 'all systems
go' and open your mouth, tongue delving deep into his.
By the time he is clumsily clawing at your shirt and your own drunken fingers
are fumbling with his uncharacteristically complicated zipper, the alcohol in
your blood has been fortified by brazen lust. You don't remember why you waited
three years to do this.
You fuck him right there on that couch, with his long legs wrapped around your
hips and his calloused fingers raking up and down your neck and back.
~
You remember in the morning, why you hadn't pounced on Kyle when you first
realized you wanted to, when Paul brings you an egg sandwich from Burger King
and coffee and Tylenol. You are in your bed- though you don't remember at all
how or when you got there, and you're still naked, but Paul doesn't mention it.
You take the pills and coffee, grateful as your head begins to pound
incessantly. Paul moves around the room, packing up both of your things, humming
what sounds like "Everybody Hurts", and you groan.
The ache in your chest is definitely guilty. When you close your eyes, you see
Kyle’s fluttering eyelids and wet lips, and think you're going to be sick.
Paul gets you both to the bus on time- you have a two-day drive ahead of you-
and Kyle is sitting in the kitchenette when you climb aboard. You don't
recognize the look he gives you. Paul's hand grazes across the small of your
back as you head for your bunk to sleep off the rest of your hangover.
You make it up to Paul without telling him, throwing yourself into loving him
wholly. Purpled bruises on his hips and wrist, imprints of teeth on his throat
and thighs, and those three words whispered into his ear over and over again.
You hope it's enough.
~
Two nights later, right before the show, Kyle stops you in the hallway with a
hand on your arms. You spin to face him, worried.
"So, what was that? A mistake?"
It sounds like a request for agreement, so you do. "I guess."
That look you now recognize from the morning after flashes through his eyes
again. You still don't know what it means, and he doesn't offer any further
explanation. He nods once, and walks away.
And that's the end of it.
Or it should be. And it would be if you didn’t want him still.
You aren’t going to do anything. This time.
Fin: 01/03