By Indiwise
There he is, again; doing that shit he does.
Sitting by the bus window, huge dark glasses swallowing half his face, hood pulled
up and shadowing the half that is showing. Playing at invisibility. Playing at Leave-
Me-Alone-I-Am-An-Artist. Playing at being some badass that doesn't give a fuck.
The King of Cool, you know.
Staring out the window, silently, moodily, obviously aware of the picture that he
makes; his raggedy-assed notebook open on his raggedy-assed knee. The bus
lurches, and his head strikes the window softly and bounces off again and the
notebook slides to the floor, unnoticed. His yellow Number Two schoolpencil rolls
away down the aisle.
Carlos realizes with a sick jolt that Paul has been passed out all this time.
Again.
With him, this shit has become an artform.
Carlos cranks up the music on his IPod and turns his head, sipping his bottled water
as his knee jiggles nervously with the beat. He has half a mind to go over there and
just shake the little shit 'til those stupid fucking glasses fall off his head and break.
Well. Not so little, these days, if the truth were to be told. 'Ol Paul-Paul has been
packin' it on a bit; his chin gone from wry and neat to what? Double, almost? His
waist has expanded and his chest gone soft, and he pretends not to acknowledge
it..but, he knows, he does..and hates it; Carlos sees that. Sees Paul trying to hide it
under enormous, shifting sweaters and open, swinging jackets.
Carlos knows that it is from all the damned pills that he takes and all the damned
booze that he drinks; yeah, yeah..but to him, there is no excuse. Paul never wants to
go clubbing, anymore..or even just walking in the city at night like they all used to,
either; and Carlos hasn't decided whether it is from embarrassment or a growing
agoraphobia or if Paul is simply being pissy, difficult..Passive aggressive, maybe.
Look at me, I am so artfully and intellectually isolated, maybe. Look at me, I don't
need anyone, maybe.
Look at me, I hurt and will just hurt you, so don't bother, maybe.
Carlos sips his water and sets his jaw. It makes him so damned angry. They have
worked so hard for this, come so far. And they have a right to be happy, a right to be
a bit cocky. They do. They've earned it.
But oh, no. Paul has just GOT to be Woe-Is-Me-Paul. Fuck-You-Leave-Me-Alone-
Paul. Gone-All-Strange-And-Creepy-Paul. On the surface of his mind, Carlos just
wishes he'd get over it. But further in, it scares Carlos. And how he hates that. Hates
how very much he misses His Paul.
*~*~*
When they'd first met, it had been swift and shocking. Carlos had been instantly
fascinated by Paul; by this neat, delicate little bastard with the ethereal, lunar-shinin'
eyes and tender little doll's mouth that turned into a slash when he smiled....and
spilled obscenities and poetry and a singing voice that had rendered Carlos
speechless at first listen. So self-contained, so sure of his own vision..but never
anything but polite and well-spoken and open to others' opinions. So beautiful, he
was; he glowed..and the spark in Carlos' heart had leapt to flame within an hour of
meeting him.
By the end of the night, he had known that he loved this boy. This Paul.
It had been ridiculous, and a bit overwhelming for Carlos. And HE was the one that
was used to doing the damned overwhelming..
It had taken him almost a year - Him. Carlos. For whom elegance and charm and
near-deadly animal grace had been always a given, an ace in the hole -- to make Paul
his lover.
And it had been the most beautiful thing on earth, it had; that first night. How
heartwrenchingly shy Paul had been with him. How unsure. His cherub's cheeks
gone flushed and hot; his hands, trembling and fumbling and moist..He'd brought out
an intoxicating tenderness in Carlos that he'd never known existed. Carlos had tried
to take it slow and patient, ever-focusing on whatever signals Paul was able to throw
him, soaking up the feel of him..the taste of him..the most minute, precious details of
his surrender...And then Paul had just frozen, his face crushed against Carlos'
shoulder. He shuddered, screaming breathlessly, soundlessly; his body, gone utterly
rigid as he climaxed prematurely and just dropped inwards and away from
Carlos..down, down....and then limp and cursing and gasping and curling onto his
side, facing the wall. He apologized weakly into the pillow, ashamed; and refused to
look at Carlos, until Carlos pulled him into his arms and told him that it was
alright..it was okay..no one would know and besides, it happens to everyone,
especially their first time. Carlos had held onto Paul the rest of the night, lying
awake and listening to him breathe and smelling his impossibly soft, messy hair..and
knowing that he was in deep, deep shit. Knowing that he loved this boy. This Paul.
And things had only grown more intense after that first night, as Paul grew to trust
him, to slowly let his guard down. To let go of his judicious self-control and wrap
his head around this loving Carlos thing..this making love with Carlos thing. Every
night was new to them, as Paul stretched out, secure and enthusiastic and ever more
passionate..and longing to experiment..longing to play games. Up for anything,
anything, he was..they both had been. It was the sweetest, most exquisite sort of
madness.
Then the notice came, the acclaim, and the band had gone from being nobodies to
the critics' darlings almost all at once, it seemed. And the drugs came, and the booze
came, and the groupies, oh..the groupies. And his Paul had started to change, then, to
grow dark and strange and to pull away. Not just from Carlos, but, from everything.
And the pressure had mounted and time flew away and they were busy and busier,
and Paul had been immersed in it, driving himself.
At least, that was what Carlos had told himself..as the tenderness, the trust, the
passion..even the simplest conversation between them had dribbled away to nothing
almost imperceptibly. Their last few futile attempts at sex had been unsettling and
odd and lovelessly rough and mechanical, neither of them satisfied as they shared
silent cigarettes in the dark when they were through.
They'd never even really talked about it, either. It had just happened.
In some nameless town in Europe, Paul had simply gotten his own hotel room one
night last week and that had been it..and somehow, it had not even been that big a
deal.
After shows, he all but tossed Carlos to the crowd and slunk away, anyway, these
days. He stopped going out, stopped doing anything with the rest of them but for
what was required for publicity. The few times that they had to be together, Paul was
wasted now. Pissed-up and sloppy. Always. And he spoke little but in random, flat
non-sequitors and acknowledged even less.
*~*~*
The bus pulls to a stop, shaking Carlos from his thoughts and he rises with the rest
of them, as they all stand and stretch and gather their stuff. SO ready to get off of
that damned bus, already. All but fucking Paul, who is still slumped against the
window.
Daniel, ever solicitous and sincere, pauses and bends to him and gently shakes his
shoulder, speaking softly. Paul jumps awake abruptly, wiping the back of his hand
across his slack mouth, and it would be comical if it wasnt Paul. If it wasn't so sad.
Fuck that.
Carlos doesn't even glance down at him as he edges past Daniel and exits the bus.