Her hand starts like it wants to find the surface of his chest, to reassure her of the heart beating underneath, but moments like those aren’t hers to seek anymore, so she smoothes the surface of her dress nervously, having never felt so fucking stupid in it until this very moment. How easy it was to lie nowadays, by way of dress, by the dolly gloss of her lips, and the pretty purple of her eyeshadow; how easy it was to lie to someone who’d once known every corner and surface of her soul.

She gives a fluttering laugh, it shudders through the air as violently as its torn from her throat at the sight of that sad smile.

“You look good, Eddie,” she reaffirms, biting down on the inside of her lower lip. “You look like hell chewed you up and spit you back out, but it’s charming on you,” she amends lowly, almost hoping her voice is quiet enough that even he cannot hear this unbidden piece of truth. “Less so on myself, or so I hear,” she tacks on.

She can’t do this.

It’s too raw, like an exposed nerve between the two of them, and she’s much too afraid to address it, scared that prodding will only net a deluge of pain she’s refused to let herself feel. It’s already in his eyes, already dripping off the tone of his voice, so palpable she could reach out and it would well in her hands and seep out the seams of her fingers. “Yeah,” she says thickly. “Uh, busy. Touring and sh- things like that.” She wants to say more, but there’s nothing she can say, really, so she closes her mouth abruptly, and her teeth click together.

She tries again.

“I’m sorry,” she says, like it can even begin to cover the soft murder she wrought upon them both. There’s so much he doesn’t know, piles and piles of price tags that Fusetone’s placed on fame and music, all things she’s been willing to part with – even him. How does she even start explaining it? “I should- I should let you go,” she says, and winces. “Let you go get your drink, I mean. That’s what you were going to do, I think?” She taps her fingers nervously on her thigh – one, two, three, one, two three – gesturing vaguely at his empty glass.

Tired eyes watch as she smoothes her dress out, a dress they would have mercilessly laughed about ( and the women who wore them, sometimes ) back when their days were spent in a flurry of tequila flavored kisses and whispered promises.

The woman he once knew in contrast to this new, updated version was shocking, so much more so in person. It was so easy to write off the whole Gemstones thing, keeping a shred of hope that she was the same girl he’s always known, but her actions speak far louder than words. He’s the same he’s ever been, except some days he’s clad in leather, others in fur, or sequins, or velvet, or whatever other outrageous material that’ll keep people from getting bored and wanting to know the real Eddie Nyx. 

He looks away at the compliment, a small chuckle of disbelief escaping his parted lips. “Charming on me. Y’know, a fan said the same thing when she caught me passed out on a bar stool two Sunday mornings ago. Thanks for being polite, I guess.” Another laugh, though it’s far from sincere ---- since when is Rosalie Kang polite? Since whenever she decided he wasn’t good enough, his brain is quick to remind him. “You rocked a hangover better than anyone I’ve ever met.” He adds, quieter this time as his fingers fidget with the rings resting on them.

Her short answer makes Eddie sigh. It’s like pulling teeth to get even a semblance of a genuine conversation with her. What the fuck did he do to deserve this? Her distance makes the wound he’s so carefully tended to all this time flare up, red and angry and raw. 

The nostalgia he feels turns sour, his face hardening at her words. “This is the first time I see you ---- since how long, Rose? And all I get are a few diplomatic words, and we’re on our way?” He’s incredulous, and his voice trembles, he’s fighting with all the self-control he has not to raise his voice. For her sake. “That’s fucking cold.”

A quick swipe of a thumb beneath her eye and a pinching of her thigh with her other hand was enough to keep her from floating away from the sight of Eddie, alone. 

Was this was love was like? No, not romantic love, nor was it platonic love, she thought. Love in the grander sense of the word. Universal. If she weren’t certain it would end their conversation short, she surely would have dropped to her knees and tilted her chin up to listen to him, as if they were figures in a Baroque painting—him, being the religious figure in such, and her a lowly mortal. 

What was he saying? Shit. She was too busy drowning in admiration.

The moment she actually started listening, she hung from his every word, nodding along and adding a few ‘yeah’s in the spaces of his tangent.

“Home? Home. Um…” She swallowed, and looked around as if she were about to give him actual directions. “I don’t have one. Not a real one anyway.” 

Oklahoma had never been a home to her, and she never wanted it to be one. Sure, she had an apartment, but with all the Gemstone responsibilities, she was hardly ever there anymore. On the off chance she had free time, she hid in the backs of music venues and clubs. Because of this, Eddie’s question actually threw her for quite a loop. 

“I guess it’s… wherever the wind throws me.” She shrugged. “I’m kinda just along for the ride, really.” 

It’s not hard to tell that the girl in front of him is barely listening, her eyes are glossed over and he can’t help but wonder what’s going through her mind as she ---- well, gawks at him. 

He’s a lot more patient with his fans nowadays, after the initial swarm and ego boost of the first days, to the general annoyance and inconvenience after the honeymoon phase, now he’s mostly just grateful they love him enough to buy millions of records and keep the record label off his back. 

Suddenly it’s a lot harder to keep the train of thought as the blonde nods along to his nonsense, wide eyes taking in his every word, so he lets out a chuckle at the end, downing the rest of the flat beer he’s been holding for far too long. 

Hearing her answer, he gives her a satisfied nod as he steps closer with crossed arms. This was finally a conversation he wanted to be having. He’s given her a good enough question that she has to think of something else but him, and he enjoys watching her facial expressions change as she tries to think of the answer, his eyebrows raised. 

“Aha, so it’s safe to say that you’re a lost soul. Like me. I know it sounds depressing, but home just sounds tedious, doesn’t it?” He taps his jaw as he replies, glancing back at the bar he’d exited a few minutes prior. 

“Y’know, there’s one thing that comes with being truly homeless, it’s that you get really good at drinking. Can I get you anything before the damned place closes?” He asks, nodding his head towards the dingy bar with a grin.

If her courage had waned, putting on the glasses gave her the vote of confidence to soldier on. It was a silly thought, but for a moment she felt as if they had some special power. The source of his enchantment, even. The cheekiness with which he looks at her with his accessory on lights up her face, a blush filling her apple cheeks. And she really tried to avoid blushing, but under the circumstances she began to forget herself. They share another beat, another passing moment.  He takes her hand. 

And he was right, most birds in her place ran a high risk of being on the ground upon sight, let alone touch. His hand is pleasant and strangely familiar in her own, and she thoughtfully glances down at the pair of them together, conjuring up what next to say. She needed feel the need to put on an pretense or act, and so she starts,  “Glad. You’re off stage, you can be real now.” She drops his hand in exchange for the bottle. Far higher a price tag on this bottle than she is used to, she takes a deep pull of it, pulling her lips away with a light grimace when finished. That should hold her for awhile. “So glad to be of service, then! After all, aren’t we all just staving off depression one swig at a time? Better to do it with company.” 

The petite girl wears the shades almost as well as he. If it were any other situation, he might even be jealous. Watching her blush under his gaze makes a chuckle fall from his lips. In a way, he gave her a part of his world in those glasses, and she filled that tiny little part with sunshine. While he glams himself up to mask the emptiness he feels, it’s like she’s doing the opposite, and the thought makes him ---- almost ---- feel something.

The words make him laugh once more, this time with a tinge of sarcasm as she takes the bottle from him. “On the stage is as real as I can get, darling.” He muses, eyes following the bottle as she takes a swig. 

Eyebrows raise as he watches her take the big gulp, and a bemused smirk corners his lips. “Well damn, if I had known you were a drinker, I would have brought two bottles.” The teasing words come easily as he steps closer to her, snagging the bottle and taking his own two gulps from the bottle. 

“Misery does love company, doesn’t it? And I can positively say that out in this alley behind that seedy bar is misery’s favorite place to lurk.” There he goes, tongue loosening up faster than his thoughts can race once more. He sits himself on the steps in front of the exit door, patting the narrow expanse of concrete beside him. 

“So what’s your story, April Jenkins?” 

@eddienyx ✩ late, late, late at night, at an outdoor table at purgatory pub.

It is damn near impossible to see the stars from anywhere in Los Angeles, of course, but Layla’s eyes drift up to scan the sky for them anyway. She had always liked to picture them like little holes poked through the dark blue, like the navy sky was only a sheet covering shimmering silver behind it. She is tired, drunk, and sore from falling onto her knees at the roller rink earlier, but she’s perfectly happy right where she is – as evidenced by the smile that forms on her face as her teeth stay wrapped around the striped straw poking out of her strawberry milkshake. 

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, honey?” She plucks a joint from her coat pocket and it quickly replaces the straw between her lips, though the smile stays on her face. (Who could blame her though for smiling around Eddie Nyx? He was only her favorite person to be around, after all.) The spark of a lighter lights up her face for a brief moment, but it is quickly shrouded again by a puff of smoke as she exhales. “You look hot. You know that, though.”   

Never one to be selfish, she takes the joint between her index and middle finger and leans her torso over the table to hold it up to Eddie’s lips instead. “Tell me all about your day. I wanna hear everything.” 

For once, it’s almost quiet as they’re sat outside, the warm breeze washing over Eddie as his eyes close easily, enjoying the lull while it lasts. The near-empty bottle of whiskey dangling between his fingers suddenly feels incredibly heavy, so he lets it drop to the cement before opening an eye at her question.

“I’m just a big dumb rockstar, baby. There are only three things on my mind.” He teases, glancing at the blonde sat across from him. There were worse things he could stare at on a late night. He grins at the thought, glad she’s moved onto another statement. She always wanted to know what was on his mind ---- the thing is, he still hadn’t figured out what to tell her. “Mm, I positively look like shit. You, on the other hand-” He interrupts his own sentence to run a hand through his disheveled hair, grin quickly turning into a smirk. “Are a fuckin’ sight to behold, as always.”

He leans forward at the statement, meeting her halfway as he takes a long drag from the joint. He drops one of his knowing winks as he exhales slowly, thinking of the day he’s had before meeting up with Layla. “Well. I tried to write a song, realized it was pure garbage. Then, some music magazine wanted to do a spread on me, but I was already in a shit mood, so the label’s going to have a field day damage controlling that piece of anti-eddie propaganda. Needless to say, I needed a pick me up.” He finishes with a sigh. His day to day problems were a far cry from his old London life, but what fun was it if he didn’t complain?

“Enough about me. What’s there to do when you’re not busy being my much needed getaway?”

She’s being toted around at another label event, stuffed into some sequined, purple dress that’s her brand as Amethyst, trying her best to charm everyone who’s anyone into forgetting any doubts they might have about the Gemstones. She’s lost count of how many cheek kisses she’s had to accept from sweaty executives and her cheeks ache at how long she’s pinned them upwards in her saccharine sweetheart smile.

Her manager follows tight behind her as she works her way through the crowd, reminding her of who she needs to greet and kiss up to so that their next album gets green-lighted, and so she continues, wondering briefly if it would be so bad if the Gemstones simply didn’t get another album. Maybe then Fusetone would let her and Paulette go easier than they’d let Pearl and Amber go, and maybe she could still make something of herself.

The thought is left by the wayside as she makes her way to the next executive.

She finishes, eventually, and pries herself from her manager’s side, making a beeline for the bar; she’s far, far too sober, and though she rarely indulges these days (she becomes too unpredictable, too honest, too real), she’ll make an exception for an event like this.

Halfway there, she’s denied by the crashing of someone else into her, and she dreads the million apologies she’s going to have to either say or accept depending on who it is that she’s bumped into, but is cut chillingly short by an abrupt muttered apology.

She’d know him anywhere; she’s heard that voice screaming by her ear in the loudest of clubs, and whispering snide remarks at stuffy parties (not unlike the one she’s found herself in now), and bellowing his laughter to the sky as they flee from the trouble they’ve stirred up, and and and.

Eddie.

She can see the surprise on his face as he registers her and she shoots him a weak smile at his remark, feeling the anxiety welling up in her chest. “I-” she starts. Can’t be seen with you, she wants to blurt out, eyes flickering over to where her manager stands with his back turned to them. “Yeah, I thought it was high time to make some changes. You, ah.. look good. Tired,” she says instead.

Once upon a time, she would’ve said you look like hell and waited to hear something like and you look like the devil herself or some other witty quip, and that’d be that. Now he’s just another golden restriction on her gilded cage, she laments, dropping eye contact for fear he might see through the candy pop charade she’s put on tonight.

Seeing her all dolled up, managers trailing close behind her, he barely recognizes her. He thought he was supposed to be the one who switched up his style, the unpredictable one of the duo. 

Even her reactions are different ---- did she really hate him that much? 

He’s never given much thought to the WHY they’d stopped hanging out, assuming it was to protect their new band’s reputation. But he didn’t think she’d actually changed. His management always informed him of the rumors that would be whispered up and down the Fusetone halls, that Bitch Frenzy was a phase, this was what they’d really wanted.

He’s never wanted to believe that, but damn it, seeing her like this almost has him convinced. 

He can’t help but laugh at the hesitation that comes from her words, and the careful way she beats around the bush. He looks every bit like he’s been partying enough for the both of them while she sobered up. The rings under his eyes and the scraggly beard were only a slight testament to that. “That’s a really nice PR way of saying it. And we both know I definitely don’t look good.” He adds with a sad smile.

The memories of a leather-clad Rosalie matching him drink for drink, Eddie pushing her down a hill in some rickety shopping cart, drunkenly watching the sunrise as they ignored their manager’s calls ---- he can’t stop them from flooding his mind. He hasn’t allowed himself to think about them in ages. She’d been the first person he’d related to since signing on to Fusetone, and just like that, she was gone.

“You haven’t called in a while.” He’s got a grin on his face but he can’t mask the hurt in his eyes, or his voice for that matter.

location: hot stuff disco

Eddie Nyx wasn’t usually one to turn down a party. To be fair, Eddie Nyx wasn’t one to turn down anything. There’s always an exception to the rule, and the rule for Eddie is anything label-related. 

Gingerly clutching a champagne flute, tired eyes scan the crowd from behind rose-tinted glasses. Rich, stuffy executives, mostly, with the occasional attraction, like himself, wandered the dance floor under soft lighting. They had this label party at a club, for god’s sake, and they couldn’t even turn up the music for people to dance. 

He’s got half a thought to storm the DJ booth himself and get the party started, but he’s stuck between a CEO for some company Eddie had lost track of, and his manager. The familiar feeling of being a bird stuck in a cage starts to overpower him, and he swiftly gulps down the champagne in one motion to steady the slight shake of his hands at the mental claustrophobia. 

He excuses himself, eyes on the waiter weaving his way through the crowd, fixated on one thing ---- numbing the night into oblivion.

Of course it’s at that moment his lanky frame collides into a person. “Fuck. Sorry.” He’s quick to mutter his apologies, eyes trying to locate the waiter without so much as giving the person a second look. 

That is, until it dawns on him. The face that collided into his frame was one he’d known like the back of his hand some time ago. 

Rose.

He knows they were bound to see each other at a Fusetone event, but god, she’s changed so fucking much, he’s at a loss for words. And that is unprecedented. 

“You uh----Christ on a bike, you’ve really changed.”

Never.         In her life.                   Had she been so caught off guard.

No, not even that time that jerk Billy Richter shoved her into the community pool when she wasn’t looking. 

“HOLY SHIT.” The words came out of her faster than she could think about them, but there was no use in holding back. She’d lost control of her body entirely. “NO… NO. You’re—”

Tears began to form at her waterline. Her hands shook at her sides. She wondered how she hadn’t recognized him at first sight—every angle of him had been burned into her memory after hours, days, spent admiring every photoshoot, album cover, promotional material, and interview spread she could find of Eddie Nyx. She knew she would eventually meet him at some point, but not at some dive bar in the fuckin’ South side! In the middle of the night!

“Everything.” She said, finishing the thought. 

Nova looked down at her shoes and her jumpsuit, thoroughly dissatisfied that this was going to be his first impression of her. Mortified wouldn’t begin to describe how she felt, standing there staring at her hero swaying in the colored light of the club.

Why did this have to happen on the one night she didn’t have glitter on!

All she had to rely on to make herself seem cool was her personality, and she’d already lost control of that just by looking at him. The oncoming tears probably didn’t help.

“Why— Why do you think you’re lost?” 

Eyes widened at the words, casting a glance around him to see if he was the cause for the reaction. Of course, he was Eddie Nyx, he’d seen girls faint at the sight of him more than once. It was actually becoming a problem at his shows. 

For some reason, he’d expected another sort of reaction ---- the singer had been able to go out in the south side fairly incognito, given he trade in his heeled boots and sequined blouses for something more...muted. The bright floral blouse and stack of golden chains on his neck were far from muted, but it had worked. Up until now, that is. 

He can tell she’s tearing up, and he can’t help but let a small chuckle escape. After ten years, it’s still the one thing that catches him off guard. He’s nothing to cry about. 

“Everything? I wouldn’t go for everything. I’m definitely a thing, but I doubt I’m everything.” Once he’d realized he’d been rambling he took a swig from the lukewarm beer he was holding, hoping it’d shut him up for at least a few seconds. 

He sighed at her question, a nonchalant shrug gracing his shoulders as he started to sway absently to the music surrounding them. Maybe if he started off on a tangent, she’d get so bored she’d forget about crying. 

“Aren’t we all at least a little lost? Not to get all philosophical with you or anything, but I don’t believe in the concept of homes. What’s home for you?” He asked, glancing at the girl in front of him, cocking his head slightly as he waited for an answer. An odd question to some, but one he’d been asking himself for years, now. It was easier to collect people’s answers and judge them than it was to answer it himself.

“No, I was–I mean, it’s not important, I was–I mean, I was–it’s–”  Her voice dwindled away as he reached across her into the bin, pulling out…an Eddie Nyx album?

Wait.  No.  No.  It took a moment without the sequins, but that was definitely him.  Or rather, he was here.  With her.  She was standing right in his section!  Eyes quickly cast down.  Oh, if the floor could just open up and swallow her whole right now!  She must have looked like such a geek!  No.  Wait.  He was just a person like anybody else.  He didn’t seem like he was making fun of her when he clearly had a reason to.  And…technically…when you put it down on paper…they were co-workers, weren’t they?

So.  Taking a breath and putting on a smile that was only a little bit fake, she delicately took the album in her hands.  “I just want to know if he’s ever going to do a Christmas special.  Like, who else could out-dazzle The Rockettes, you know?”

Eddie stared at the other with a lopsided grin as the realization dawned on her. It was always one of his favorite reactions to see on people, the moment they put two and two together. 

She was cute, trying to cover up the familiar conversation. He liked the idea of someone talking to his album, that his fans were even half as weird as he. Eddie watched as she processed her surprised, and composed herself quickly. He was impressed, and her question made a genuine chuckle tumble from his lips. 

“Oh, dear god. A Christmas special? That’s right in front of ‘best-of’ albums in the old washed up musician checklist.” He shoved the brooding picture of himself back into the stack, crossing his arms, grin still intact. “Am I washed up already? I know ten years is a lot for the music industry but I thought I had at least a few months of life left.”

It was no surprise to the young woman, but Eddie Nyx was perhaps even more of an enigma off stage than he was in performance. There was something boyish about him, even. Who was he when you stripped away the feathers, the boots, the lights? Did he even know?  She takes a note of his smirk, watching him watch her. For a passing moment between them it feels like the beginning of her familiar game of cat and mouse, but Eddie Nyx was no ordinary rock star, and this was apt to change the rules of the game. In fact, for the moment, he didn’t really feel much like a rock star at all, just another bloke sharing a smoke in the night. There was something that, despite the fame and the bravado, set her at ease.  Then, he pulls his glasses from his face and hands them over to her. After a short examination of them, she wagers they are the finest accessory she has held in some time, and now he has simply given them to her. Oh, Mari would have to hear about this…  She takes a pause to get an actual look at him, his features, his eyes, the rings just around his eyes. It is a chaotic beauty, to be sure. Then, without further thought, she puts the glasses on and takes a look at the world through his lenses, literally. “Can’t quite see in these in the dark, can you––Oh!” She is interrupted by him, asking for her name of all things. He wants to know? “I’m April, April Jenkins. It’s lovely to meet you, Eddie.”  As if he really was just another bloke, she outstretches her small hand towards him, deciding to christen their meeting with a handshake. She smiles at him then, as the absurdity of the situation sets him. April Jenkins, in Eddie Nyx’s Vivienne Westwood originals. They looked better on her, anyways. Or so she thought. 

Life in the fast lane, Eddie liked to call it sarcastically, was an attack on the senses. One moment he’s begging people for food on the street, the next he’s sleeping in thousand dollar satin sheets. After ten years in the business, Eddie Nyx was officially desensitized to the life he had so hastily stumbled into.

He watches, bemused as she takes the glasses. The one constant thing in his wardrobe were the sunglasses. If it was for flair, or to hide the sullen eyes that lay behind all the extravagance of his accessories, he’d never delve into.

The brunet can feel the other’s gaze, piercing under the dim light of the alleyway, and he almost feels like turning away. She’s too close, looking at him for what he really was. A regular guy playing dress up. The moment is fleeting, and a smile still haunts his lips as she puts them on ---- they don’t look half bad. Maybe he’d found his fashion successor. 

Of course she’s caught off guard, he is too. He knew enough people, had to remember thousand of names, why would he burden himself with another? But he couldn’t help it, the petite girl had his attention.

“The pleasure’s all mine.”

Eddie takes the outstretched hand, shaking pleasantly. The normality of the interaction feels almost ridiculous, as if they were both in on some practical joke they were playing on the universe. He hadn’t had an ordinary conversation in years.

“I don’t know whether to be offended or glad that you haven’t fainted yet.” He teases, dropping a quick wink before remembering wha he was holding in his hand. He brings the bottle up and holds it in the space between their bodies. “Care for a drink? Post-show rituals can get pretty depressing when you do them alone.”

It had been an honest mistake, really. Most of his fans came to the show dressed in a similar if not identical fashion, so when she’d called out to the faceless fur coat in the dark, she had expected a fellow fan out for a smoke. Not Eddie Nyx himself, handing her his own lighter. He looked so different without the stage lights, standing on her level in the equalizing stench of the alley. He looked real, and she would daresay human?   There were no better words for it, she was properly starstruck out there, wordlessly taking the Union Jack lighter with a nod. She didn’t mean to stare, yet it was all she could manage to do as she sparked up her cigarette. She was used to being around these men-turned-gods, but Eddie was a different animal. There was something ethereal and fantastical about him when he lit up the stage, and it stirred up something in her she had yet to name.  April takes a deep drag, collecting all of her scattered thoughts and at last composing herself. She glances down at the lighter, giving it a fond look, before handing it back over to him.  “As much as I’d love to whisk this away and eventually pawn it to the highest bidder, I’ve got an American lighter back home and I’m afraid they would get along terribly.” Oh for God’s sake, be cool, April. 

It always took him some time to adjust between who he was on stage and who he was in real-life, so to speak. Or who he wasn’t. Usually the cigarette and tequila ritual was done on his own, gathering himself before the flood of social interactions would start once more. 

On stage there was a veil between him and the world. His music painting whatever he wanted the universe to believe. Out here, he was just an ordinary guy who wore outrageous outfits and who liked to drink, like most of his London kin, though most people didn’t make out the difference. Even he was blurring the lines, and he was truthfully glad this girl had decided to pop up and distract him from the dark thoughts that always lingered after a show. 

He watches her closely as she holds his lighter, smirk shadowed on the corner of his lips. He’s met and analyzed more people than he could count since his rise to fame, and her face in the front of the crowd at the show he just played replays in his mind. A fan, though she seems to have her wits about her. Thank god. He grabs the lighter from her, pocketing the steel before leaning against the wall once more. 

“That’s quite fortunate for me, innit? God bless America.” He chuckles at that, tossing the half-finished cigarette to the ground as leather boots crush the lit end into the asphalt. “As a token of my appreciation, have these.” Eddie takes off the glasses he’s wearing ---- he’d already worn them twice, anyways. That was a sin in his own books. “You can probably make a month’s rent with them, they’re Vivienne Westwood originals. Don’t tell her I gave them away, she’ll tan my hide and use me for her next collection.” He chuckles as he leans over, hand outstretched with his offering. “I never quite caught your name. I’m Eddie. I’m sure you already know that, but it feels weird not giving a name back in an introduction, y’know?”

Location: Mezcal Moon Time: 11:00 PM Status: Open

“You got something to say? Or you just gon’ stare?” 

Eddie plops down beside Marina, a lit cigarette dangling from his grinning lips. “Oh, come on. I thought you’d be happy I’d shut up for about three minutes. I was almost about to burst, not talking for that long.” He takes a drag from the cigarette, motioning towards the bartender for a drink. “What’s the poison of choice for tonight, disco queen?”

Wichita Wishes very well may have been Mary Jo’s favorite place in the whole city.  The stacks and stacks of records as far as the eye could see, that delightfully old smell…it was a place her grandfather would have loved, and that’s what she loved the most.  Not to mention it was only a short walk from the apartment.  

Most of the time, she didn’t even buy anything.  Just walked around the store, fingered through her favorite artists and stared at their album covers, and well…talked to them a bit.  Like today, for example.

“Dino, you and the boys are behaving, right?  And don’t try to lie to me, because Bing told me some stories.  And there’s Ella, glowing as usual.  Ella, I know I say this all the time, but this is my absolute favorite picture of you–”

That was definitely a footstep she heard behind her.  A finger stayed propped against the record stack, but the rest of her turned around on a dime.  Were her cheeks as red as they felt?  “Oh…uh…”

It was quite an unusual sight to see Eddie Nyx up before five in the afternoon, but he’d decided he’d take a stroll around town, for once. He was needing some inspiration for wardrobe planning his next few shows, and rifling through a thrift shop had always been one of his favorite remedies to that. 

Though he’d come here with the intention of looking through the racks of clothing, he found himself wandering the record aisles, noticing his friends, rivals, and acquaintances staring back up at him from the covers. He had yet to find himself, which made him frown. 

He was pulled from his thoughts as he heard someone speak ---- almost like they were on the phone? But she was in the middle of the aisle, looking at album covers. A bemused grin pulled at his lips, and he pushed up the large glasses that were covering his tired eyes onto his scraggly locks. He wanted to get closer, listen in on this private conversation she was having with the albums, though being subtle was never in his array of talents.

“Please. Don’t mind me. You seemed to be having some important words with some important people. Though-” he interrupts his own sentence, leaning forward, his oversize army trench coat brushing against her arm as skilled fingers flicked through the albums until he found his own face, painted and posed on the glossy cover of the record sleeve. He pulled it out, handing it to the girl. “You got anything to say to this rascal? I hear he’s a bit of an egomaniac, he’d love to talk to you for a while.”

starter // open for all  located // back of the bar, following a show (of any kind)

It’s a feat that it’s been this long since she’s had to pull one of her own cigarettes, but there she stood with messy hands pawing through her knit purse in the dark. The show had ended, and she had honorably discharged herself from her post at the front of the stage, dutifully waiting at the back of the venue to catch a known face or perhaps meet a new one. She pulls out a Winston light (horrible choice, really) with nothing to light it with and so begins the search.  With her wide eyes and timid look she more resembles a prey than a predator, but then she locks her sight on the nearest character with a confident, “Hey, you got a light?” 

Although Eddie could sell out much bigger venues at this time in his career, his favorite places to perform were the small, questionable bars. He felt closer to the people attending, and reminded him in a bittersweet way of the place he’d come from before he was discovered. Beads of sweat gathered onto the locks falling against his forehead, gravity pulling them down before his hand interfered with their journey. He felt like it was a thousand degrees in the venue, and he was boiling ---- though that may be because of the huge blue tinted mink fur he’d slung across his shoulders before stepping out to perform. 

He needed nicotine, tequila, and fresh air, in no particular order. Killing three birds in one stone, he grabbed the bottle of patron that was always waiting for him after a show, and let his boots make their way to the alley. He leans against the cool brick, cigarette in mouth when he hears the question. Eddie shoots a glance from behind his blue tinted frames, lights his own and tosses the silver lighter with the English flag etched onto it with a flick of his wrist. “Do me a favor and give it back in one piece? It’s a favorite of mine.” The question may seem odd, but Eddie’s already been robbed of socks from his fans, so he’s not overly optimistic about ever seeing that lighter again.

starter || open location: outside a music venue on the south side, night

“You lookin’ for somebody?” she calls out. “You seem a little lost, there.”

distracted, he swings around to the sound of the other’s voice. “me? i’m not lost. do i look lost?” it’s probably the alcohol ( and the pot ) that makes him look so. “unless you’re talking about life in general. i think i’m a little lost there.”