Chapter Text
Ever heard of Audrey Hepburn? You know, the one starring at 'Breakfast at Tiffany's', the one most people have a celebrity crush on. Ethereal eyes, 70s pixie hair and delicate fingers. Well, she's in front of me right now, and she's lewd and messy and she's panting. Perhaps her surname ain't Hepburn, but she certainly is an Audrey, I can tell by the way he moans her name through rough kissing.
She's beautiful, she could be a star, I'd probably be a fan if she indeed was. Yet, I can only stay at the sidelines, embarrassed to be creeping upon her obviously private moment.
However, guess I could be excused, because it's not her who I'm watching. And even though she can manipulate you into falling for her like she's doing right now, even though it does sound appealing, I mostly wish to be her. I wish to have such hands around my waist and such lips on my mouth, although a part of it would just be a dream where I could say I was another stage for Julian Casablancas.
"Probably the nicotine messin' on me", he replies when I ask him about the state of his unkept curls. I'm pretty sure he barely even washes them, yet they're so attractive to the eyes. If you wanna be a star, it's only required to have curls like these.
He runs a hand through it and pops some alcohol open as he sits back with crossed legs. Hot, honestly, and the lips curling on the glass rim have my eyes slipping. I settle them instead on the mirror pane, where I have pinned a print of the venue we're playing next. We, oh, that's such an overrated word. We ain't playing, Julian is, and I'm watching from the side, if the staging's nice, if the crowd's having fun, or whatever I've studied in venue management. It's always Julian playing, the instruments, the band, the fans. They'd all force scars and bleed in the name of Casablancas.
"Three metres, as usual?", I ask, obviously regarding the individual venue he needs for the next show, "There's extra space"
"Make it four - five", he doesn't even look at me.
"'Kay, but they should move the bass back for that song... Where you make a mess out of the entire stage"
He laughs, a charming giggle of his.
"Hard to Explain", he names the song and taps his fingers on the table, mimicking its tempo. Pretty catchy if you ask me, used to be the highlight of his first concerts. Perhaps still is.
Thus we settle on four, and moving the bass. The prototype scene plan is always an option, and that makes my job useless, pretty much, especially when we're talking for such a small band.
'The Strokes'. I clearly never knew about this type of meaning, nor I'll ever have the guts to ask. It may has to do with paintbrushes, colours or gentle caressing.
No, they're not even that well known in their own country, let alone worldwide. And as far as I'm concerned, I could be wasting my potential on that. Venue management and other nonsense, something inside me tells me that I chose this major based on random means. That job has no meaning, unless you're planning a huge venue, with millions of fans. And I used to believe I'm meant for it, to perfect those inaugural studies and get to work with... Beyoncé, or some kind of musical celebrity.
And so, I started annotating on the blueprint plan, making a vast rectangle at the front of the sketched stage and scribbling big, round letters; Julian Casablancas. My hand paused slightly, and I pretended to be overthinking spelling rules. Casablancas... My mind read. It's such an elegant name, so no clue he kept it in his stage call. And damn it, if Corey sounds better than Audrey with that surname on the line.
As my body arches towards the mirror pane with practised ease, I feel the familiar brush of the petals were my shirt is riding up. My gaze drifts to the desk where rested a pretty vase full of orchids, and some tiny gardenias. Flowers gifted to me by accident, once, mistakening me for a member of the band. A member of Julian's life.
"Yeah, flex it, hottie", I hear Casablancas saying, in a teasing tone and a matching smile. Instinctively, I reach out to pull the shirt down, although it isn't even cropped or smaller than necessary. Regular shirt, regular guy. Doesn't matter that in some occasions it's only required to put a suit on.
I roll my eyes and I grunt. Yet, when I turn around I see my post is over, since Julian is getting called out. He leaves the room with the manager, probably going to practice, or something like that.
I take advantage of the situation as a break, and instead of keeping going on the endless circle between work and rejection, I choose to sit down on the couch, a bit further away from where Julian had been sitting moments ago. And, of course, I have to accidentally knock over the bottle of alcohol.
"Stupid...", I sigh and raise the bottle back up, looking for something to wipe the liquid.
I settle on some tissues and get to my knees to start cleaning it up. Obviously, that's the moment I notice that pretty huge wet stain on my shirt, my regular shirt.
Disbelieving of my luck, I end up pulling the clothes off, both the stained fabric and the slightly damp undershirt.
At this very moment, I hear a "Corey fucking West". And as I turn around I find myself face to face with Julian. He's probably forgotten something and has come back. It sounds simple enough. However, I just know nothing will ever be the same between us. I'm having Julian look at me in the same way I've gazed at him a thousand times. And at the realisation, I freeze, staring back at him, presumably. I should've hated myself for even hoping, yet I deep down always yearned for those eyes.
He examines me closely and I make no move to cover my exposed upper body.
We might've been staring at each other for at least 5 minutes, solid. I want to ask what's going on, but I can't bring myself to get a word out. My eyes flicker down to his body and back to his face in an instant, eventually settling to his lips as they took uneven breaths. It's an instinct, coming from a habit I can't seem to get over.
He seems to notice I've been yearning. And he takes a step closer, so I subconsciously move back slightly, against the couch. He raises his hand when he sees me moving, but he doesn't move, doesn't even touch me. Every cell of my body is magnetized by his outstretched hand and I absolutely want to meet his skin on my palm. But instead I try to focus on his eyes.
Eyes I've seen countless times.
Eyes that have aged with me an entire life. Me and Julian had that dream since we were 15, even though I was the talent hole in our little duet. It was never hard for him to find new bandmates and musical talents. He supported me at first. But after realising I'm not born for the stage, I ended up studying venue management.
I wanted to be with him. Even if I wasn't a crucial part of his life, I still wouldn't give him up.
And hell, if I'm to confess something, I love him. A whole damn lot.
"Jesus, put a shirt on?", he protests, but I notice his hands clutching the hem of his own shirt. I gulp. A trembling hand of mine reaches to my shirt and I hold it close, but I make no move to wear it.
Staring contest, I think.
He closes the door behind him with just a click that barely registers my mind. And he walks closer, God, he walks closer to me.
My eyes are wide and probably shining, just like the sole streak of sweat tickling Julian's forehead. It's so obvious that I yearn for any type of movement from him. And thus, I almost collapse when he grabs my shoulders and brings his lips to mine.
It's been almost ten years, ten years of uncontrollable longing, at least for me, and hope for this very moment.,
I don't know how, but I manage to kiss back while keeping a balance between the pent up need and the anxiety, maybe shyness, that slowly takes over.
He takes my shoulders then grabs my nape and lets his hand slide on my bare chest. I'm either numb to the touch, since I can barely believe this, or sensitive enough for him to make me gasp and pant.
I merely glance to the shirt discarded on the side, and my eyes, as if magnetized, return to him in seconds.
He pulls away just to breathe although there's barely time to react to what has just happened. He pushes me back for another kiss, and another, and another until oxygen feels like luxury. Though I don't even need it when I can have this instead.
This is what I chose every time, since forever.
I moan when his lips touch the overly sensitive skin of my neck. I've never felt like this. Not even the first time this happened.
In no time, his teeth are moving on my throat. I hold his hair tightly, not caring that it might hurt. And he touches me more, his hands move around my bare waist.
"Julian", is the first word I say when he pulls back for more than a second. He looks up, questioning, and hums a small yeah? I don't know what's going on or why I even called out for him.
Thus, I push back from his grip and sit on the couch. It's obvious I'm trembling. The way he's looking at me, I can't help but recall our first time. Our first kiss, our first everything.
We were teens, I was doing nothing more than reliving my sweet sixteen at Julian's birthday. We had just started that band, and I had no gift with me. I lied, telling him I forgot. Though I waited. At the end of the party I stayed to help him pick up the mess we'd made ourselves. And I handed him that letter. The letter sent by the industry where I'd promoted some of the band's prototype work - and the knowledge that Julian and The Strokes were invited to officially participate in the campaign. He looked at me with wide eyes when I broke the news to him. It was beautiful. I'd found myself unable to hold back, after having pined for him for more than a year.
It was a mere kiss between two hormonal teenagers, who were best friends since the practical forever. We passed our teen years together after that. Although unofficially, we frequented the kisses, maybe something more from time to time. I loved Julian, deeply, and as far as I know, I still do. Though I'm totally unsure of what he even thinks of me, let alone love me.
"Corey", he says my name back, raw, unfiltered, like he always used to say it. Before he... Met Audrey, or whatever other chick he is currently running after. I hope for his realisation as I hold his arms tightly against me. Waiting for the moment it'll down on him that me, Corey West, is his other half, the soulmate he's lost for almost a decade now.
"Corey, I need you", he mutters against the skin of my collar, and goes back to kissing me. It takes every ounce of my strength to pull him away and make him stop.
"In what way?", I don't ask, I demand this time. I know that this is putting me in danger of heartbreak.
"In every fucking way"
I had no idea what to say after that, so I loosen my grip and let him hold me.
"Every... Way...?", I hum.
Surprisingly, he listens, and responds with a low groan against my skin.
"Is it too late to say the right thing?"
"No, but you act the wrong way", I huff, but I'd be damned if I let myself recoil.
"What's the right way?", he asks, "Tell me"
My eyes zero on him. I want to tell him to love me, to beg for it, but I'd never stoop so low again. Last time I did, I was left hanging alone.
He momentarily stops. Asks again, what's the right way?
I don't know. There's no right way. I start panting in his arms, my fingers touching his jawline as to distract him from his unrelated question, and myself as well.
Under different circumstances, I'd just tell him he's doing enough, he's not like that. But I find comfort in the truth. In whatever he makes me feel, unknowing of the impact.
So I merely ask him to keep touching me instead, it's the safest option.
I close my eyes and try to forget every form of overthinking that I've recently experienced.