Work Text:
He checks carefully his reflection in the mirror for any signs of last night, but everything seems to be perfectly in place.
He definitely needs more sleep and less stress, but miraculously the lack of the former and abundance of the latter is not yet showing on his face. And that's for the best, since he doesn't really have energy to deal with other people's curiousity, their questions, them snooping around more than they already do. God, there is no moment of privacy in his life these days, not even here.
This huge, beautiful house was supposed to be their shelter; their high castle where they could hide from the rest of the world, live large between streaks of recording and touring. All in all it became nothing more than a showcase in which they were on constant display; the walls could have as well been made entirely of glass.
What is surprising, he muses, is how quickly they both accepted that. Maybe that's how this world's royalty does it - just ignore their own privacy swarming with people with no names and no faces, picking up after them, serving, listening to every word, witnessing every embarrassment.
He's pretty sure someone is talking to press right now, describing in detail events of previous night. Some shitty journalist must be sporting massive erection just thinking about that piss of an article he's going to write. The rise of the star looked great on the covers, but their downfall always looks so much better. And there is so much downfall to cover.
He walks over to the coffee table and picks up the glass of whiskey he fixed just a while ago and finishes it in one gulp, welcoming the burning in his throat, warmth in his stomach, and the feeling of his muscles relaxing immediately. He'd love to have more, but it's still too early - especially after that fucking night.
His knuckles are still throbbing.
When did everything start to get so ugly? Everything was so different back in the beginning. Pristine. Exciting. Easy.
Was it even love? Or have they mistaken desire for it? Bodies sweaty against crumpled sheets, teeth marking skin, hot breaths mingled together, kisses so hungry and voracious they hurt - that was real, alright. Even when it was a bit crude and awkward at the very start - it always felt right.
When did it stop feeling right?
Now it's hard to believe they even liked each other. There's too much disgust on both ends, too much unkindness shared. Maybe, after all, it was just working arrangement combined with some meaningless shagging to release tension.
There's a light knock on the door and he gives his reflection one last glance to see if his face looks friendly enough. He doesn't feel friendly, but he honed the art of pretending long time ago; every polite, enthusiastic facial expression he had in his portfolio practiced in front of the mirror. He knows by now that people don't tend to think too hard. If you give them impression convincing enough, they are happily willing to mistake your snarl for a smile.
- Come in. - he says, and the young man who enters practically gives him a fucking curtsy. He works for them for a couple of weeks now, and you can tell he tries very hard to remain professional, but sometimes he still cannot contain the childish excitement. Spoiled brat from some fancy school, completely starstruck - but at least polite, obedient, and good with his numbers.
- Mister Reid. - he blushes a little when John approaches him and puts his hand gently on his shoulder to steer him back to the door.
- On time as always. - he smiles at the younger man, causing him to shyly avert his eyes. - Let's take this outside, I've asked for coffee to be served by the pool, if that's okay with you? The weather
is nice today, it would be a shame to waste the opportunity to catch some fresh air, don't you think?
The boy is quite pretty when he blushes. He has nice, thick hair, and plump lips. He's definitely easy to look at, just as he's easy to work with, and this time John knows better and intends to never let it stop being easy.
- Is mister John joining us? - the secretary asks, clutching folder with documents to his side as he's being steered through the house.
Let him sleep. - John thinks. - He's not fucking everything up when he's sleeping. He doesn't get whiny, he doesn't get needy, he doesn't embarrass me in front of people, he just needs to be checked upon if he's not choking on his own fucking vomit from time to time.
- He'll need to pass today, I'm afraid. - John replies, as he did so many times before. Poor guy probably has to lie to his friends about seeing Elton John, since he barely has any contact with his client. - He
just got back from the tour recently and didn't have decent sleep yet. He needs to catch up on that.
- Of course. - the young man agrees eagerly.
And they walk out of the house.