Chapter Text
There is concrete powder on his knees and the taste of salt coating his throat.
He swallows hard. Rolls his tongue across his teeth, grimaces at how thick and swollen his mouth feels; sinks a little further into the plush cushions of the theatre chair and tries to disappear.
A rough hand squeezes his elbow as a spotlight hits him, and then cheers erupt from somewhere distant. Somewhere past the ringing in his ears.
He is being pulled to stand, shuffled through one arm hugs and pats on the back. There is a something controlling his actions as he feels himself smile, his feet move him forward and command the rest of him to follow. His own hands reaches out to reciprocate congratulations and covertly brush his suit -- spends more time at his pant leg because...
There is concrete dust on his knees.
The very ones that are burdened with his weight as he makes it down the aisle of the theatre, the pressure of a thousands eyes following him. The same that bend at the joint to propel him up the few stairs to the podium. The ones that shake violently as he a takes the figurine he is handed -- all prestige and golden and so much heavier than anticipated -- and gives his acceptance speech despite a too thick tongue and the acidic burn of his sins threatening to come back up because..
There is concrete dust on his knees as he receives the coveted award for Best Performance for the role as a villainous clown.
There is salt on his tongue that he tries to swallow down as he recites platitudes and faux thanks.
There is a dark shadow of a man in the audience watching him who must think he is one lucky son-of-a-bitch right now, but Buggy knows the truth.
Because even though there is dust on his pants, blooming bruises on his knees, and the taste of salt and something else — something thick and distinct to its creator — coating his tongue, treasure in his hand as he smiles and fools the world into thinking that he wants nothing more than to satisfy hungry eyes and demanding fantasies...
Well...
There is a man with the wrong color hair and funny side-burns in the audience who thinks that just because Buggy can still taste him as he speaks to work colleagues and passive friends and jealous rivals — all the while the world watches greedily at home — that that makes him his — makes Buggy belong to everyone, just because he performs his job well...
None of them are him .
He craves the attention of only one set of dark eyes, and he knows they're not watching because they're out living their life, somewhere else and far away.
Somewhere outside of the rigamarole of whatever-the-fuck the alleged City of Angels does to its captives.
Somewhere free and exciting, because the owner is a song-bird that can't be caged, even when he flies willingly in the gilded confines, snips his own wings and tries, because he is the kind of bastard who would rather suffer than let others suffer.
The kind of bastard that cares.
Buggy accepts the praise and recognition, smiles and laughs as he dusts his knees and swallows hard, wants to scream and cry at how wrong wrong wrong wrong...
There are a thousand eyes watching him, but none of them mattered because they weren't his eyes.
Buggy, the Biggest Name in Hollywood right now; the Academy Award Winner; the Star Clown -- that Buggy stands in a crowd of many, utterly alone, with bruised knees and choking on the putrid taste of guilt.
♪
From across the country, a musician finishes his set and catches a passing headline on the dinghy bar's TV. Steals himself when he feels his smile grow too wide, misplaced pride blooming in his chest.
He's handed a beer from the bartender, on the house after a decent enough performance, and proceeds to raise the glass to the screen. Downs the content in one go.
He orders another. Repeats the process.
Later, when he is stumbling from the bar — the owner, Benn, hailing a cab for him and giving him a familiar reprimanding for over doing it, again — Shanks can't wipe the dopy smile off of his face.
Asks the other man keeping him upright, “Have you ever been in love?”
A yellow taxi cab pulls up to meet them at the curb. Benn yells Shanks' address to the driver like he's done on so many other nights. Finally, he looks at Shanks once, critically, and rolls his eyes. “I've never been driven to drink because of it, if that's what you're really asking.”
Shanks snorts. “Then I take that as a no.” He all but throws himself into the taxi, Benn tossing his guitar case in next to him.
To the cabbie Benn says, “Make sure he gets in the building, yeah?” Then to Shanks, “I'll call you in the morning to make sure you're alive. Maybe you'll be a little less in love when you wake up with a miserable hangover.”
Shanks can only nod, knows that he won't feel any different in the morning. He leans his head against the cool window and breathes in and out. Closes his eyes and listens to the radio play love songs the entire way home and feels his heart break all the more. Continues to smile, despite it.