|
|
| |
| |
| |
|
|
baby!smash. а какого черта, в конце концов? мне надоели эти понты, синяки под глазами и дрязги с лидерством в группе. дайте мне маленького нереалистичного трогательного девственного Владика-которым-Топалов-никогда-не-был, and i'm there )))
thanx Васе и его сигарам за вдохновение.
рассказ написан для кЭт, потому что я уже тысячу лет обещаю написать ей что-нибудь на английском ::g::
fast learner
There are times when the mere thought of cigarettes disgusts you. Not always. But they're there.
Actually, you don't get this whole hysteria about smoking at all. When he picks one out of the pack with sleep-awkward fingers and takes the sacred First Drag of the Day, you just feel kind of sick and squelch the urge to open a window. The smoke messes with the wholesome morning smells of coffee and aftershave, and you hate that.
Not that you'd ever dare to say anything, of course.
You've been smoking since you were fifteen. You like the process, lighter - drag - hands, and the semi-safety it offers in a roomful of strangers. But sometimes just the notion of breathing poisonous smoke into your lungs makes you want to puke. Like right now, for instance.
"Want one?" your concert manager offers you a pack.
You feel a wave of nausea ripple through you and dig your fingernails into your palms so hard they'll leave tiny crescent moons.
"Sure," you say and reach for the lighter.
All the journalists eagerly brand you as the "baby", but fuck you if any of them know what it really means. When they scribble it down in their teeny mags for all the little girls to coo over, they mean "baby brother", the youngest of two.
It somehow slips their mind that there's always a crowd of people around you - the roadies, the managers, the various hangers-on and free-riders, - and they're older than you, all of them.
If they asked you, what's the one thing you loath about your job, you'd say it: not the hours, not the crazy fans, not the total absence of privacy, oh no. Being the baby is what you hate most.
At the very beginning, when this whole thing was just an idea tossed around and you didn't really believe anything would come out of it, their condescending attitude drove you up the wall. You hated the way they'd halt their conversations when you came into the room and stub their cigarettes out and say "Ok, this is it for tonight, how about we go somewhere else". They didn't hate you, you were pretty sure of that, they just thought you were... well, the baby.
But you're a fast learner, and you learned fast.
With dogged determination you made a place for yourself among these people, not an equal, still the kid brother, but not lame, no. You simulated endless need for new sensations, played on their pride, letting them think they were your teachers, tried everything they offered you. Sometimes, when you got lucky, you could fake it, make it look as though you've already tried it before.
It was hard work, but you've never been afraid of working hard.
You don't have his suaveness, that easy grace the producers always fawn over. You never look relaxed and in control on camera, you're forever bumping into things and you always shut the car door too loudly. They say "It'll come naturally when he's a little older". Contrary to what you feed the journalists every day, you were never friends before the group. He was the oldest, and you were... well, you were you. You don't know almost anything about him, and he, he somehow manages to know everything about you. Sometimes you wonder if he's had cameras installed inside your brain while you were sleeping or something.
Sometimes you wonder if he reads all your thoughts or if he just knows, because he placed them there.
It's four o'clock in the morning, and you can't roam the bar anymore. You're sick of the faces, sick of the smoke, and you have two interviews tomorrow. You wonder what moron invented the "living in the same hotel room" gig and you pray to God it wasn't your father, because you want to kill them.
To hell with it, you think finally, and steer towards your room. If he's with a girl, you won't be in the way, really, you'll just climb into bed quietly, get a little sleep...
He's alone. He squints at the bright strip of light and says grumpily
"Close the door".
You close the door, stand still for a couple of seconds, adjusting to the darkness, and start to undress, hoping you won't bump into anything valuable.
He gropes for his cell on the nightstand, shields his eyes from the blue light and looks at you, surprised.
"What, you're still up? Now? Are you nuts?"
You shrug and continue to undress.
He mumbles something about how you obviously lost your brain somewhere and he's not going to cover for you tomorrow when you look like a puffy-eyed raccoon, but you don't really listen. You want to ask him to turn on the cell again, because that light would really be more helpful than his rants, thankyouverymuch.
You feel something collide with your knee - ouch - and realize you've just found your bed, unfamiliar hotel rooms be damned.
"Fuck this" you whisper under your breath and walk over to his nightstand.
Initially you only want to turn on the light and finish undressing, really. But then you see his face out of the corner of your eye, bathed in that eerie blue light, and you have to turn. You don't really have a choice, it's like somebody up there is pulling your strings.
From above he looks strange, unreal, not at all like some ordinary guy you see every day. He looks a little like a porcelain doll, maybe, or a mask. His skin is paper-thin where it's stretched across his cheekbones.
You stare, mesmerized, and he stares back, and then suddenly you understand. You've never looked at him like this before. He's taller, and even when you're sitting, you're not on the same level. And now he's below you and you're taller and stronger and more awake and just... wow.
"I'm really drunk" you offer. Actually, you're not really drunk, you're not even a little drunk, but it seems like the right thing to say, somehow, and that string-pulling thing up there pats you on the back.
"Oh yeah?"
How does he do it? Seconds ago he was sleepy and relaxed, but now he's wide awake and alert, and you feel as though he's the one standing above you.
"Turn it off" he says softly and you obey before you have time to think.
He reaches out and touches your cheek, thoughtfully, almost absently, as though he's thinking about something important and can't be bothered with trivialities like kid brothers frozen above him in the middle of the night. And then his hand slips down, over your crotch, casually, like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"It's kind of weird... I've never done it before".
You open your mouth in surprise. He's talking about sex, you're sure of that, nobody can touch you like this and not be talking about sex and what does he mean, he's never done it before? What were all these girls doing here then, watching TV? Was he faking it like you do?
"Me neither" your voice is a hoarse whisper, and he smiles.
"I don't think it's too different from girls" he says, and you want to kick yourself. Guys, he meant he's never slept with guys, and it's only natural for you to be so stupid, of course, because you're the baby and kids are dumb, aren't they?
You don't have time to finish the thought - don't have time for any coherent thoughts - because he pulls you down, under the covers, and the world blurs.
He stretches, scratches his head with both hands. He smells like stale cigarette smoke and alcohol. You turn away, dig your face into the sheets, but it doesn't help. So this is what sex smells like. Fuck.
He studies you, sleepy eyes clearing, and asks, a little incredulously
"You?"
His voice is hoarse and rugged. You nod.
"Whoa, I must've been more drunk than I thought..." he grins, like the whole thing amuses him immensely, but not in an offending way, then stretches again and starts dressing swiftly. You watch him silently and feel like you should say something, but, as usual, you can't find the words.
At the door he pauses and turns around.
"Look, don't tell anybody, ok? Your father's gonna skin me alive if he finds out"
You nod numbly, not trusting your voice.
"Down in twenty" he says, like nothing ever happened. "Thanks, I had a great time".
The door closes. This is it. You stare at the window, blinking back tears, and notice that the glass is foggy from someone's fingers. It's that easy. Those handswordslips at night and don't tell anybody in the morning. You were great, old chap, had a great time, nice to know you can be useful for something.
This is what the life of real stars is like, probably. The life of adult stars, you correct yourself.
You don't like it yet, but you'll learn like you always have. You're a fast learner.
You reach for the nightstand and take a cigarette.
напишите коту
|
|
|
| |
| |
| |
|
|
|
|
|