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“Yes, just like that.”
“Move a little to the left, please.”
“And… we're rolling.” with that, everything becomes nothing more than background noise. Every camera shuttle, every time a models’ heel dug too hard in the carpet. All flushed down by the sharp click of a clapperboard. A soft yet charming voice is picked up by the mic — though, it wouldn't bring justice to the shine she radiated.
“Do you feel left out? well, envy's a word of the past. Leave behind your worries with the official launch of FOMO's new sister app…”
Her honey blonde hair's been tied up in a ponytail that best framed her face, not a strand left to stray. It's styled to profession, yet still she felt so authentic, comfortable.
On the side, behind focused cameras stood two distinguished men, in suits that alone announced their status. One tall, with hair that would shine white under the harsh artificial lights.
His dark grey eyes, shielded by a pair of shades — naturally, yet purposefully wandered the studio, with confidence only a superior would have. On his chest, a name plate, boldly displaying his name. “X” it sharply read. The man beside him is noticeably dressed in a toned down formal look aimed to compliment his outfit, not to overthrow. He followed X around like a leashed dog, hands moving frantically against the clipboard, taking note of every little thing he mutters.
“Admirable, isn't she?” he mumbles, just to fill in the empty space not already taken up by the room. His fingers wrapped around the pen, ready to jot down any minor reaction X might give.
“Hm. Sure.” X couldn't be more uninterested, it wouldn't take a genius to tell. His response is immediately met by the scratching of ballpoint.
“Don't write that down.” to which it's promptly crossed out.
“I've talked to you about this before. Don't take note of anything unprofessional. Personal things such as opinions shouldn't be relevant in the final critique.” X let his eyes continue its saunter. Every corner, every person from one head to another. The room's filled with the regular people you'd expect at a production studio. posh, serious, chic. His gaze upheld its linger, not nearly interested enough to stare at anything for more than the needed four seconds. He'd seen this all before —
“Who's that?”
It's as if his all too calculated world took a halt too abrupt for comfort. His gaze unwillingly glued to one person. Unfairly graceful — a smile so captivating it should be illegal. There he stood, washed up by a ripple of people. Like the center piece of a grand magnum opus. He wore the usual attire you'd find a corporate slave, but oh, how it worked too well. A familiar voice abruptly cut through his train of thought.
“Nice, sir. If my memory hasn't turned on me." His assistant keeps hold on the clipboard still, going through seemingly endless pages of documents pinned against the metal board. “sales.” he adds.
“I see.”
“No need for me to write that down, I presume?”
“No need.”
——————————————————————
X detests the idea of negotiating with business partners. It's uninteresting. A passive aggressive discussion wrapped in awkward laughter and small talk. But it has to be done. Even if he wished he was somewhere else right now. Preferably across the room, where he can hear the conversation between Nice and that man a little better.
He's yelling at Nice. An exchange fueled by sighs and exasperated scoffs. Yet, Nice remained composed. Maintaining that calm demeanor X had always seen him in. He just nods at everything, despite the profanity, the insults. Like a compliant, mindless ant. How curious.
He's handed a pile of paperwork rather roughly, a few flying away, to which he'd pick up without complaint. Hell, not one distressed look crossed his face. He simply crouched, a hand holding the stack steady.
He moved around the office with such practiced ease. X thought, all while knowing very well he should be paying attention to the very important discussion he was currently “participating in”. The unbearably eager business man in front of him shifts around his seat, a comically large cigarette lolling between his fingers as he rambled about.
It's unusual how captivated X was every time a strand of ivory hair fell upon his face to which he'd blow away. Every time he'd wipe away any expression other than his perfect smile. How he'd carry himself with such grace.
But X wasn't stupid. He's lazy — a walking epitome of incompetence masked by skill, sure. But he wasn't a complete idiot.
Nice wasn't what he presented himself to be.
He was written in delicately woven lies.
Just by how he spoke, X could tell. That blissful facade of his may fool the average coworker, but no front ever bypassed him, of all people.
Oh, how that only made X want him more.
—————————————————————————
“This sucks.” he grumbles. Before him, rich, snobby drunkards that clinked their glass against one another, drowned in nonsensical laughter. Just hours earlier, his excuse of a friend had forced him to attend the whole ordeal. He could already feel the regret pile up inside him as he unavoidably inched closer toward the bar. His gaze ran through an assortment of liquor left to collect dust on the rustic shelves. Yet he's drawn not to the aroma of rich wine — but by the cheap canned beer stored behind the frosted cooler.
He should probably try something else. Something more professional for a man with his prestige. Yet the thought of trying anything other than the usual, artificially processed drink irks him.
“Whiskey, please.” a voice — at least to X, louder than the rest. Much louder than the vacuous banter that enveloped the joint.
How perfect.
He's here.
X's feet walked on their own, carrying his suddenly heavy body toward the stool right next to the man.
Every word that came close to escaping his mouth would immediately be met with a bite on his tongue, no greeting really made sense. “you come here often?” this is a private venue. "sure you can handle that?” he's not a child. He can handle a drink.
“Don't you have business to attend to?” Nice's sharp, almost idol-like voice cut through the tension before he could. He glances at X for a fleeting second, before returning attention to his drink of choice. Nice twirls it around elegantly with a practiced rotation of his wrist. The liquid dances around the rim of his glass, a sparkling shade of rich gold liquor.
He's right. He does have business to attend to. That business being the warm comfort of his couch. And he'll be as good as free from this dump in about four more torturous hours.
“Don't you have reports to go through?” X responded swiftly, his words coming off more cocky than he wanted it to be.
“So you've seen.”
“I have. You interest me.”
“Do I?”
“You know, when an arrogant superior tells you to finish such a workload — you're supposed to refuse.”
“Easier said than done.”
“I know.” a pause. “you still shouldn't be so submissive to their inhumane requests.”
“Easier said than done.” he repeated with a light chuckle.
“I don't know much about you.” Nice then mused, never letting the silence linger for too long.
“Oh? then, what do you know?”
“Well, you're held to high regard. That's one.”
“That's given. I meant about me.”
“I can't say I know anything about you.”
“I don't know anything about you, either.” a half lie. “but I'd like to.”
“Theres not much to find.”
“I doubt that.”
Just a little more. The more he'll drink — the sooner he'll lay himself open for me to see the truth of his facade. X foolishly hypothesized. It sounded wrong on paper. That, he's aware of.
And so they drank. One glass drained after another. Seeing Nice drink so recklessly only really compelled him to bring the cold metal opening of his beer can against his lips once more. It was like a silent conversation, hidden beneath the warm embrace of alcohol.
Nice already seemed noticeably floored. Mindlessly chasing that drunken relief with a shot of cold liquor. He moved like a mess, like he was desperate for something to wash away his burning desolation. He treated alcohol like a makeshift paraloid to bind his cracks together, like a last minute bandaid to keep him from bleeding.
It was like he was a completely different person. As X thought, the alcohol was what he truly needed for that flawed void to seep through his cracks of “absolute perfection”.
“Won't you have a problem getting home?” X couldn't help but ask. A hypocrite, he is. Asking such questions knowing he's just as equally wasted as he is.
“Let's slow down, yeah?” He followed, leaning back on his stool with a soft chuckle.
“I don't need advice from you." Nice stumbles on his words, clearly not in the right headspace. Yet, still sober enough to shut his own foolish mouth with a drink before he spoke too rashly. “I…” he cleared his throat. “ I didn't mean to be so crass.”
“Don't be afraid to speak freely with me — I won't hold it against you.” X assured him with a rather smug expression plastered across his face, already heedlessly reaching for another fresh can.
Soon enough, common sense had been dumbed down to a sick joke. The counter reeked the pungent smell of alcohol. They shifted around their seats, both fighting a losing battle against the damning liquid. Conversations were nothing but blurry memories, meaningless dialogue that posed no purpose, yet meant so much.
Every word that left Nice's lips.
Every small, irrelevant detail the drunken man would mutter.
God, since when was he so pathetically invested in another person? it was almost as if Nice's very existence dared his self-control. And even more so, it bothered him to not be part of it.
He was drunk, too. Way more than Nice was. Dangerously so.
“Why… bother yourself — with all this?”
“I don't have an answer to that.” X mumbled in response, crushing an empty can in his calloused hands. “I think… that I'm simply drawn to people like you.”
“People like me?”
“You.”
A tragic paradox.
A slave of perfection.
“I know what it's like.” X followed. Finger tapping idly an unstable rhythm against the marble.
“You don't." The man replied too quickly. Sharp enough to cut.
“You won't ever know what it's like.”
“God, I– I can't do this.” Nice groaned softly, rubbing his eyes as if it would bring him back to sobriety. Without another word, he just left. Before this went too far. Before he lost control of himself — leaving the lingering scent of his perfume like a trail for X to naturally seek.
He followed the man without room for second thought. Out in the cold night's embrace. His polished oxford shoes scraped against the rough concrete, chasing the sound of hurried footsteps.
“Where are you going?”
No response.
“I asked—”
“Don't follow me.” Nice retaliated. The soles of his shoes stilling against the pavement at the abrupt stop, hands falling out of his coat's comfort to drop lifelessly at his sides.
“Why should I listen to you?” he caught up to him eventually, stopping just behind his figure — close enough that he could touch his ruffled hair with a simple reach of his hand. Though his brain, or what's left of it that still functioned, caught up before he acted on anything reckless.
“You don't understand.” Nice's chest rose and sank in an erratic pattern, slowly turning to face X once again.
“The more I look at you— the more I feel this…” he took a deep breath. The words lumped at his throat.
“this… painful feeling of resentment.”
“It's even worse when you treat me like that. This would be easier if you were just… if you just treated me with the same distaste as everyone else.” The words left him like it shouldn't have. Almost feeling like a diary entry being invasively read aloud right back to him.
“I get it.”
“No, you don't understand. Not at all. ” a hic. “people like you…” he points at him accusingly. Every drunken word that slurs his mouth pierces through the air — laced with bitter envy.
“Have it so easy.” his finger pushed X back against the cold brick wall.
“I mean, you could…” he stumbles on his own feet, his balance just as unstable as the profanity he uttered. “You could make the most substantial mistake, propose the most idiotic idea — and you'd still have everyone in awe.”
He spoke as if all restraint had gone to hell, as if holding back never mattered. Like he needed X to understand. To feel what he felt. For his suffering to be heard, raw and imperfect. For once.
“But me? oh, me—” X couldn't help it. seeing him stammer like that… it's like his perfect demeanor's finally been reduced to a dazed, irate, mess of a man. X wanted a drink. A drink to flush his impulsive desires down. down to something that didn't feel like a threat to his composure. He needed a drink.
Then it's like all he could smell was the liquor. The sweet flavor that clung to Nice's lips. Maybe it was time he tried something other than cheap beer.
X pressed his lips against his, partly in frustration, partly in pent up desire. He would be lying if he said he hadn't expected a slap, or at the very least a push.
Nothing. Just the sound of sweet groans, barely controlled breathing.
His tongue found home in Nice's foul mouth. Desperately exploring its very shape — so he can burn this feeling in the back of his head. That addictive feeling of aching warmth.
X’s hands snaked beneath that fitting button up, tracing the path up his spine, to feel every bone against the tips of his fingers. With his palm molded perfectly against his body, he brushed over the soft skin of his shoulder blades, like a God's omnipotent touch grazing over a seraph's fractured wings.
You've drowned in your own fears, letting doubt feast at your body like maggots — with that, to me, you're truly human.
In between shallow, shaky breaths — the words tore at X's lips too naturally. Like this was always meant to happen.
“my house or yours?”