world's a stage, baby!

The ribbon of thought that Zoe wanted to wind around her finger was, you want me. It echoed from the implication in Niamh’s words like soundwaves emanating from a struck tuning fork. Without wavering, though, she forced herself to push past it. Niamh made it crystal clear what she wanted, and it wasn’t Eraserhead’s bassist and back-up vocalist. Still, it confused Zoe that the torture didn’t end there, and that the deceivingly sugary pop-star seemed keen on pressing her finger on the bruises to check if it still hurt.

Exactly like now.

“So cocky, Niamh Black,” Zoe said. In reality, she hid behind the phrase to pause for breath. The emptiness started aching, or was that just guilt? A second passed and Zoe resurfaced, ire stroked by how resolute Niamh was being. “And so delusional. Like, how many times do I have to tell you that I have a boyfriend now?” Hopefully, her bandmates proved even a teeny-weeny bit trustworthy and didn’t inform Niamh of Zoe’s escapades, but her family’s been slippery lately. Nonetheless, she mustered enough bravado to return Niamh’s smile, inching forward a small step. Not too close into the danger zone, but enough that Niamh was the only thing in her line of vision. “Fuck, yeah, do it. Everyone will be obsessed with me, the mermaid bitch who played bass for our generation’s The Clash, for inspiring the song. And you’ll just be a one-hit wonder no one remembers two years from now. And I’ll treat it like that other shitty single no one’s heard — turning that manufactured shit off.”

“Oh, yes,” Niamh said, her tone thick with a faux-enthusiasm that she would’ve tempered better, had she had better control around Zoe, “Your favourite topic to bring up, Sio. Maybe we should have a sleepover,  braid each other’s hair and have a pillow fight, and you can tell me all about it.” She straightened her neck again, aware of the inch -- not even an inch --  of height that Zoe had over her. Niamh kept her hand tucked under her chin, propped up by the arm folded across her body. It was a pose that was as much analytic as it was closed-off, the implication of I see you, you don’t see me clear. Niamh knew perfectly well how little truth mattered when it came to social status; it was always the person who could project the most convincingly unshakeable image who won. “I don’t see why romantic status is relevant. We’re just talking, Zo -- but I’m glad you feel comfortable enough with me to share.” 

She held her ground, steely as Zoe took the smallest step toward her, smile stretching at the implied challenge of it. Zoe’s ire being directed at Niamh herself did little to dull the shine of watching her when she was on like this; in the very least, Niamh had never been, and never could be, bored of Zoe Levin. A shame, then, that she couldn’t let her keep going. “Oh, sweetheart. Hence why it’ll be about your dreams. While you’re soothing yourself thinking about how people are gonna like you one day, I’m gonna focus on the present.” With a sigh, Niamh let her arms fall to her sides, digging into the back pocket of her jeans to produce a ten dollar bill. Not waiting for Zoe to take it, Niamh took hold of her hand, using the other to tuck money into her fingers. “Give that to Alexa for me, will you? I never paid her back for the drink the other night.” And then, “Monetarily, anyway.” 

With that, she took a few steps back, resetting her expression to something more neutral. “See you around, kiddo. And have fun dreaming about me.” 

The first hiss of her breath and a chill zipped up Zoe’s spine. Her involuntary reactions to Niamh’s presence were acidic; she would have known it was Niamh if she hadn’t said a word or if she didn’t glance up at her. Pressing her lips into a line that hinted at that familiar cavernous feeling she always had around Niamh, as if her organs were gouged out and she was just an empty corpse but not in the punk way, she met Niamh’s steely gaze. She wished it belonged to someone else. Anyone else. But she wouldn’t look away because she wasn’t a coward and she never has been.

Grappling the handle of her guitar case, Zoe rose to standing without her stare faltering, hesitating, it seemed, before speaking. Okay, she might’ve fucked up in the past, and Niamh may or may not have been the cause of aforementioned fuck-ups, but she didn’t need Niamh gaining more power over her. Yeah, the best she could do is swerve whatever games Niamh tried to involve her in.

Zoe could do level-headed. Hell, even amicable. She’s been in enough prickly situations to have some range. “You flatter me. All this for an autograph?” And her tone brightened in faux elation, because obviously nothing made her happier than being around Niamh. “What should I write? How about, ‘Congratulations on no longer being tone-deaf?’”

Very amicable. Very level-headed.

As Zoe turned, Niamh was met with a familiar feeling in her core. It was a feeling of alertness, of rightness, akin to the feeling she got when she was on stage, hundreds of eyes on her -- it was the fulfilment that she craved of being recognised, seen in a significant way, in a way that she always wanted to be seen. The feeling was false, of course; that was Niamh’s problem with Zoe. She gave the illusion of being a world’s worth of applause, and that was a trap, one that Niamh had deftly avoided. It was artificial sweetener, but there was room for that on occasion. Niamh let herself revel for a moment in Zoe’s attention, even if it came with an undercurrent of hostility -- especially because it came with an undercurrent of hostility. Getting under Zoe’s skin was one of Niamh’s favourite things to do.  

“Why would I want your autograph? I can have you right in front of me whenever I want. Cheapens the whole keepsake of it.” She smiled as she said it, easing into a casual shrug, the kind that said I am not affected by this at all. “Sweet of you to take interest in my musical talents, though. I should dedicate my next single to you,” Niamh put a finger to her lips in contemplation, eyes slitting just so as she tilted her head to look at Zoe from a new angle, focus catching for less than a moment on the curve of her jaw before it bounced back up to her eyes. “How about I call it, At Least You’ll Always Have Dreams?” 

Bored. That was Niamh’s mental state when she’d first seen Smith, serving up piping hot coffees at The Bean Brew. There was a possibility that if she’d seen him on any other day, she wouldn’t have approached him at all, but in that moment he was the prettiest object for at least a fifteen mile radius, and she had thought, why not? That wasn’t to say he hadn’t grown on her now, in his own ways; for one, he was a law  student, which meant he had some ambition, but mainly she liked that he had an air of severity about him, that with a glance he could convey total disdain. That was an art form. Not one she’d see used on herself, though. “Don’t be difficult,” Niamh intoned, allowing herself to level him with a flat look for only seconds before she brightened her expression with a smile. More flies with honey, and all that. “I’m not asking for your social security number. Just your dirty laundry. You don’t have a single Aunt whose child looks suspiciously like the mail man? Spill.”  

Ezra throws a hand over his heart, dramatically feigning hurt as he clutches the album in his other hand. “Niamh, do not tell me you don’t like Mamma Mia,” he says, looking at her expectantly, “It’s already a near-perfect album, I’m just wondering if the sound will be any better. Not the content. The content is…” he kisses his fingers, “chefs kiss.” 

“Nice try, Greene,” Niamh said, pulling a Madonna vinyl out from the array of records. Be still, her beating heart. A pink diamond in the rough. “You know I don’t have empathy. Your Mamma Mia heartbreak means nothing to me.” Semi-true. Niamh was usually pretty good at keeping her eyes on the prize, but sometimes when she looked at Ezra she saw a seven year old boy sitting on top of the monkey bars and her heart did a little squeeze. Should’ve pushed him off, she thought. “What’s the obsession, here? You like the idea of being stringed along in Greece? Cuck.”