fan behavior ; tip your waitress

He wears a halo of curls, spilling technicolor light onto his skin. My eyes follow the path neon cuts from his cheek to his collar, painting a peculiar picture in the low light. A little bit like an angel if not for all the shadows around us. I'll send him a prayer regardless -

walkrightpastme.

He's a couple steps away from invading my space, and I look behind me only to be met with a wad of chewed up bubble-gum by my right ear.

Worse, he holds out his hand like it's something for the taking. Dripping in jewels and sleek metal bands, there are stains on his skin where the oversized rings don't lay quite right. The gold isn't real.

Fresh out of plausible deniability, I accept that he's here for me. Now I've just got to find out why. Huffing out a breath between clenched teeth, I take his extended hand. With the way I'm burning up a fever, the chill of his fingertips is welcome. He's the kind of handsome I don't bother with back home, they tend to have little patience for for my bumbling.

"Hey, you know how to use that thing?"

So he's only pretty until he opens his mouth.

The panic does not fade, but a flood of indignation is welcome reprieve.

"Obviously. Did you know your shoes are untied?" I respond, earnest and brittle. It's only fair, if we're exchanging stupid questions. Blinking up at him through my lashes to keep from rolling my eyes. Dad says it's impolite, Mom says people shouldn't waste my time. His examination isn't unwelcome until it lingers on the places silver paint has begun to chip off my camera's lens mount.

"I hear you're good at taking pictures. You're here for 'Tip Your Waitress', right?"

I don't bother wondering where he's heard such a thing, this is now a matter of pride and principle. I breathe in, until my lungs are full of smoke and hot air and whatever spiced cologne he's wearing. "Yes... I'm here for... your band." I connect the dots, eyes trailing behind him toward the half-put together stage. A chaotic mess of trailing wires and humming amps. The microphone stand sits its center, abandoned - "They sent their front man to welcome me. That's sweet?"

Dishonesty should come easier to me than this, I almost choke on the lie. The flood of adrenaline that follows is worth it. "We should have a proper introduction, then." I decide, taking his wrist and dancing through the crowd as he had on the way down. Seems the best way to maneuver around enthusiastic drunks. I store that bit of information away for later.

When we get to the stage I push myself up on its edge, and promptly blind myself on the stage lights suddenly boring down upon me. It's not the graceful gesture I imagined, but I stick out my arm to help him up as well "I'm Cedric. By the way." Careful to cut off everything that comes after.

Ruby sure is beautiful when he's scheming.

Teeth bared in that sharp smile, eyes trained his little fawn with the hazel eyes. A nervous thing despite his best efforts. You'd think no one had ever looked at him before with the way his jaw works every time Ruby's eyes jump to a new expanse of his skin. Shame someone stuck Indy with setup or he might have noticed the man in vintage leathers come in through the back door, with a DSLR slung over his shoulder that puts the boy's plastic toy to shame.

"Looks like we don't need you, doll," I pat the old photographer on the shoulder, "we've found a freelancer. We'll have him send the card over to the journal when he's done."

Not foolish enough to pass up the opportunity to do less work, he shrugs and marches right back out the stage door. For a second, I swear my hear starts beating.

There's regret written all over the little fawn's features, familiar in a way I can't quite put my finger on. He's getting tangled on his own tongue, about to gag on his own lies. Rare to find someone who's not yet accustomed to their taste.

Whatever his reasons for being there, we're in this together now. It'd be embarrassing for the both of us if he hung himself now. "There you are!" Lipstick flakes off the tight smile I shoot him, widening my eyes and hoping he's smart enough to read the warning in them. "Siren's Gazette, wasn't it? I've been looking all over for you."

Coming up behind Ruby, I thread my fingers through his curls and pull. All love and no kindness, "Don't mind this one, he just wants to know when he can add the photos to the shrine he keeps of himself in his closet."

I lean in to let a whisper linger just behind Ruby's ear before turning my attention back to the fawn.

Let's play.

I’ve got a thing for stupid, pretty boys

and this boy is pretty stupid.

Sprawled out on the couch, dress shirt half tucked into unbuttoned jeans - I’ve got ten minutes before anyone’s supposed to be bothering me. He’s lucky I still have a hearing aid in, the other lost in a pile of dirty laundry next to the strat.

Still, I see the knob rattling before I hear it. Makes it easier to pick Indy's voice out of the humming hive breathing down his neck, I've memorized the feeling of it more than the sound. A low rumble in his chest, polishing ribs.

Too loud now. It crackles over interference, losing syllables to a ringing vertigo. I throw the door open at the same time I flick four fingers under my chin. Fuck off. Propped up against the doorway with my forearm, I peek past him in case he's brought more of the motley crew.

Somewhere in my chest, love and hatred end up tangled. They're all the family I have left, and if I saw a single one I'd slam the door in Indy's face. Which he knows, of course he does. He knows me better than I know me.

I pretend to observe the carnage around him.

"Looks grim." I nod, making a pistol with my fingers and trailing it from the hollow of his collar bones to the scratchy skin below his jaw, "I'll put you out of your misery." He wouldn't come to me for mercy. I mime pulling the trigger, hooking a thumb through his belt loop to drag him inside.

"Eight minutes." I point toward the clock, picking through the chaos and gathering the various bits of myself I'd scattered like puzzle pieces throughout the mess. "I'm not late, so you just missed me." Got a bad habit of skipping questions, I make statements and wait to be proven wrong.

I've never been good at the pretty part. Smiling and waving, making small talk with drunkards tripping over their tongues. Makes me feel like I'm wolf in a bear trap, two seconds from gnawing off my own leg. So I stay back here, until two minutes before showtime. By then the crowd goes docile and adoring and I can stand the weight of their attention.

Tried to bargain for thirty seconds but Slate gave me that withering stare they learned from all those moms they f-

"You're stressed." I roll my eyes, slinging my guitar over my shoulder without adjusting my current state of undress. The other hearing aid falls somewhere off it's body, and wince as I adjust to two working ears instead of one. The rush is always unpleasant, "But even if everything fucks up, we'll get so drunk no one'll remember it anyway."

He wouldn't come to me for mercy.

"Lots we can do in four minutes." I slouch back on the couch, plucking at the strings. Little whispers without cords or speakers - special like secrets. I don't look at Indy, lest he find the ones I've been keeping from him too. "Why're you early?"