They hadn't talked to each other for almost a week now. The next show came with the promise of brief freedom.
Lawrence was the only one there at first, so he and Johnny got to setting up what they could. Cole came staggering in with Van about ten minutes late and nearly passed out behind the stage, his jacket rolled up as a makeshift pillow. He clearly drank more than he should have again. Johnny just prayed that he'd be functional after the short rest.
Van, however, seemed to be working his way into a rough, riled-up mood, and he was eager to get things going. "Is Julianna coming by tonight?" he asked, picking off a few low tunes on his guitar. Johnny felt his muscles tighten, a lull in his stomach at the mention of her.
"No," he grunted.
"I thought I had a chance to meet her again. Why, is she busy?"
"Just let me focus, dude." He tested the strings, adjusting them a bit more. She was still on his mind. His only hope was to get drunk and play a good set. Maybe it would help him feel a bit better, get things off his chest. So he brushed off all further conversation and put his entire focus and effort into the music, letting it drown out all the distractions plaguing him until he was too worn out to care anymore.
And it must have worked, to some extent, as he was fading fast. The show had been exhausting, even being the quick little act it was, being a warmup for a grander play from bigger, much more successful players once again. But as soon as it was over, Johnny fell back with them at the bar, getting absolutely blackout drunk in an attempt to forget what day it was and what exactly had happened. The anxiety crept through him like poison, but Van played carefree with him and covered the cost. Feeling like a loser, a stupid deadbeat addict. Johnny buried the guilt and shame as deep as possible. No wonder she'd cheated on him. He was a broken mess.
"Jeeesus," Van burst out laughing, watching the poor miserable bastard throw back one shot after the other. "Slow the fuck down will ya, man? You're gonna pass out, and then I'm gonna have to carry your ass out of here. S'not gonna look pretty."
"Fuck off," Johnny managed, before licking his lips, his throat burning. Picking at the grain of the wood surface as Lawrence nursed his only beer and Cole's attention wandered out the door.
"I'm serious, man. Y'know, I spotted someone here before we went up, and I realized it was that LaBelle guy. Seriously. Your fanboy. Jesus." Van laughs. "I told him you'd play something pretty for him if he stuck around."
"What?!" Johnny blanched. "Van, god fucking damn it, I didn't know that shit."
"Oh?" Van feigned innocence. "Well it's certainly too late now. I saw him watching you."
"You fucking cunt," Johnny cursed, angry but unwilling to completely lose it on his buddy. "You goddamn cocksucker."
"Ayyy!" Van smiled. He was obviously in a pissing contest at this point, trying to see how far he could push him. Like poking a caged, hungry dog. "C'mon, buck up, pretty boy. Maybe your girl didn't make it, but your boyfriend showed up to see you play, you should be happy!"
That did it. Johnny stood up, fists clenching. Catching himself before he did anything stupid, he grabbed his jacket and walked away from the table, determined to go into the back alley and clear his head. Johnny ducked his face behind his collar and shouldered the backdoor, ducking into the side-alley. Fumbling for the box of cigarettes in his pocket, he ignored the sounds of an unknown voice on a phone call nearby. Letting the door bang shut, Johnny ducked to the corner and caught a flick of light as he approached the wall.
Someone else was standing there. When their eyes met, Johnny felt a fresh horror climb up his throat, strangling his thoughts.
Paul just stood there, staring Johnny down, clearly not expecting to run into him. A smoldering cigarette sat pinned between his fingers, dangling. He tilted his head. There was a look of mild curiosity written on his features, as if he'd been thinking about something and had been disturbed. "I heard you were playing here," he finally began, answering the unasked question burning in Johnny's head.
Johnny swallowed. Paul was incredibly attractive as always, in a tight black t-shirt and ripped jeans, leather straps and metal studs decorating his coat, his heavy-lidded eyes fixated on him. Handsome as ever. Permanently youthful. Insanely wealthy, popular, and generally inaccessible to all but his family and friends. The power he wielded was terrifying. And here he was in an alleyway, staring at Johnny, who swayed, pale. Pathetic. Johnny could barely get out his words. "...Yeah..." he choked out, his voice strained.
Paul tilted his head. Sensing something was off, though, he quickly dropped his gaze. His eyes roved over Johnny, curious, catching the details. Sliding lower. Obviously bored, Paul smoked the last of his cigarette. Tossed it away. Still he only studied Johnny curiously. After a moment, he finally said, "Aren't you going to ask what I'm doing out here, Johnny?"
No reply. The answer was plain as day, already. It was weird, taboo, almost, a sensation of panic tickling the back of Johnny's neck as he watched the arrogant superstar. How drunk was he? How stupid? God, drunk and stupid.
"You haven't guessed?" Paul supplied helpfully, turning his head and tapping a finger against his cheek. The perfect white-blond hair tumbled over his eye.
Again, Johnny only stared, his body feeling numb. Legs felt like stone. Tongue swollen in his mouth. Time moved so slowly, his mind so rapidly. All he could do was stand there, shivering and pathetic.
"Don't you know, Johnny?" came the same icy, smooth tone, the voice he heard on the radio, on TV. "Someone like you, anyway."
Too much. Overwhelming. In the space of a few minutes he was bombarded with more than he could process. He still missed his girlfriend. He still yearned for a fix. Seeing the pop star was not helping. He was absolutely wasted and could barely contain himself.
"Don't just stand there, idiot," Paul snapped, finally irritated. "Come on. Say something."
The words, the demeaning tone. There was some kind of game in place, but Johnny wasn't sure he could follow it. He just stared, feeling like a dumb animal and unsure how to snap out of it. "Yeah...sorry," he began as he tried to regain his composure, his knees wanting to buckle and give out. His legs trembled. Finally, they were closing the gap between them. No matter how long it had been, this still felt different, frightening, inexplicable. A fresh heat rose up his spine the longer he stared.
"You shouldn't look at me like that," Paul finally whispered as he grabbed the wobbly idiot and yanked him closer. Something in the icy blue eyes seemed to melt and soften, their hard edges rounded off. Suddenly the small space felt much too warm and cozy. "If you only knew, Johnny."
"What's that mean?" he asked, his eyebrows scrunching together.
"Nothing." The voice rang hollow. "C'mere, you're warm."
They stood there in silence while the vague taint of booze hovered around both of them. It smelled like desperation and hard living. Johnny ran his tongue over his lips as he gathered his courage. Fully expecting to be immediately brushed aside, he rested his head on Paul's shoulder.
Paul startled at first, making a small, anxious noise. "Alright, not like this," he muttered, grasping Johnny and guiding his lips to his. He kissed him, rough and messy and hurried. Johnny's vision blurred. He broke away from Paul's forceful hold after a minute, dizzy and confused, a violent thrill flaring up in his veins.
Paul glanced from side to side, suddenly nervous, checking for bystanders and peering into the darkness of the alley. "Let's go somewhere," he breathed. "Not here."
That somewhere ended up being the backseat of his expensive car, buried between his exquisite designer clothes and his stupid dumb bubblegum pop CD collection and whatever other junk was left back there, both of them taking up any space that was left. Paul had laid one of his coats down as a sort of blanket, so the seat wouldn't be so cold, and the setting made the whole situation a bit unromantic.
It wasn't pretty. Johnny was almost entirely too drunk to know what the hell was happening. He would've liked to savor and enjoy the moment, but unfortunately he was knocked unconscious the minute he was finished, unaware of anything else after. A short sleep, coming back in fits and spurts, waking to realize he was now sprawled out on the backseat alone, and Paul was sitting up front, presumably halfway decent, chatting on the phone as he busied himself with something.
A heavy curtain draped over him as he lay crumpled in the corner of the car. Johnny let out a long, annoyed sigh. With nothing better to do, he listened in on the conversation.
"No, yeah, I know! What the hell. Give me...ten, twenty minutes, okay? I'm not at home." A pause, listening to whoever was on the other end. "Michel, look, I know Gus wanted the recordings by midnight, but...he's gonna have to wait, okay? ...No. Absolutely. It is important. Yes, I did go to that show you said was a waste of my time. No, I have no regrets whatsoever. You're wrong, and your opinion doesn't matter," he scoffed, and then there was a long lull. Feet kicked on the dashboard, quiet, and Johnny had nearly fallen asleep again until Paul turned around in his seat to glance at him, his hair covering part of his face.
His expression was neutral, but it softened slightly when he locked eyes with the wreck nested in the pile of clothes, realizing he was awake.
"Listen, Michel, I have to go. Call you later." He hung up and dropped the phone into the car door, leaving it there as he peered back and reached to ruffle Johnny's mess of hair affectionately. "Listen. Wake up, okay?" came the softest voice he'd heard from the superstar. It took him a moment to realize it was directed at him. "I'm gonna buy you breakfast. We'll play some more. Nice chat. Got it?"
"...ah...yeah..." Johnny fumbled around, trying to think up something halfway intelligent to say. Coming up with nothing, he finally just nodded and tugged himself up. Paul watched.
The ride to the small cafe was quiet. Confusing. Johnny wasn't feeling good, and his guts roiled with each new bump. Despite the weirdness, the singer still brought him in and paid for his meal. Pulled him to a dark corner where no one would notice. They ate in silence, stealing glances. Paul nudged his hand under the table and held it. Strange. It was nice, actually, but unsettling.
Finally, breaking the strange silence, Paul asked, "do you like me, Johnny?"
The question was ridiculous. Unsure how to react, he just played along. "Yes."
That seemed to be all that Paul needed. With a pleased smile, he propped his chin on his hand, sipping at his coffee and staring at him fondly.