Setting: The Seven Veils Time: Almost midnight, and ten years ago Characters: Indigo, Corviss Rating: PG-13
Indigo was just finishing his set. He tended to get a more lukewarm reception when he was playing male, but it hadn't been too bad tonight. Possibly because people were starting to know the club had a hermaphroditic dancer, and were sometimes showing up now just for the novelty. There were others, of course, but the half and half thing was still kind of rare. As he cleaned up in the dressing room, wiping the sweat from his face and re-touching up his eyeliner, he wondered if he was okay with being a freak show attraction.
Oh, who the hell was he kidding, he loved people looking at him for any reason. And there had been a guy in the corner who'd been eyeing him particularly appreciatively. It might turned out to be a productive evening in more ways than one. Ruffling a hand through the longer black waves he was sporting today, the dancer walked back out into the bar proper, looking around for the hopefully big tipper.
His eyes passed over a few people, not seeing who he was looking for ... and then his brow furrowed in surprise. Was that ... ?
Despite the Graverobber's warning, Corviss had arranged to meet another well-known necromerchant, hoping to learn if Amber had another source, and as the night grew longer it was obvious he'd been stood up. He was pissed as hell for the second time in less than a week. What was with people making him wait these days?
Growling low in his throat, he'd settled at the bar, away from the other patrons, reasoning that he may as well have a drink. He'd watched the dancer with a critical eye, recognizing a talent beyond the stage in this place, but he hadn't thought much about it. He had bigger problems. He'd dressed down, for him, with a black cotton button-down and a black vest over it, accentuating his narrow hips, but he still wore the matte-black leather jeans and boots. He couldn't think of the last time he'd worn something that wasn't black, and idly he began thinking back, trying to remember.
Slowly the dancer approached from behind. Of course Corviss wouldn't recognize him. He'd looked so different, over a decade ago when they'd last seen each other. But oh, Indigo knew who he was. Knew very, very well. A slender hand reached out and lightly tapped the singer's shoulder.
"Josh?"
Even with his face plastered on billboards, people didn't often recognize him in public on the rare occasions he went out, so he was generally left alone, but even if he'd been swarmed with fangirls, there wasn't a single one who knew him as anything but Corviss. At the quiet word, his perfectly-sculpted face went white and he looked over sharply, green eyes wide. Prompted by the name, the irises were rimmed with a thin line of brown.
"What did you call me?" he asked in a low tone, watching him, trying to recognize him. It was the dancer who had just performed, and Corviss didn't know him. At least, he didn't think...but there was something there. Something familiar.
"You got your eyes done, didn't you?" the man in front of his said softly. "It's not just the contacts any more." The features were far more lush than the ones Corviss would have remembered. The lips fuller, the cheekbones higher. The eyes a much more unusual shade of grey-green instead of plain old blue. But the slightly uncertain smile was pure ... well, he hadn't always been Indigo. It was pure Steve, a skinny, angry kid from the lower levels of the city.
Corviss's brow furrowed just a bit and his eyes moved over the features of the face in front of him, mentally changing them, and the smile just brought it back. Corviss had just been remembering the night when Josh Copeland had first looked in the mirror and seen Corviss smirking back at him, seen the face of what was to become his future, and here was the man who had finally cajoled him into changing his image.
"...Steve," he said at last in a slightly stunned voice. Those who knew Corviss well would have been hard-pressed to recognize him as his attitude changed completely, instantly, as the arrogant thrust of his shoulders changed to a quieter, less aggressive posture. He closed his eyes for a brief moment and when he opened them, the brown had taken over. "Got them done a few years ago," he answered, and the voice was far softer, friendlier.
"It's Indigo, now," the man who'd been Steve - and was once again, no matter what he said - claimed. "God, Josh, it's been ... forever." He pushed a hand through his hair nervously. "I ... wow. What are you even doing here? Obviously you're not here for me ... "
"Ten years," Copeland said softly, dropping his eyes as he remembered the past ten years. He looked frustrated and shrugged a bit. "I was supposed to meet someone here, but they didn't show up. I didn't even know you were..." He gestured aimlessly at the stage, and even his movements were different, less calculated to draw the eye, more graceful and natural. He smiled a bit, looking at him again. "It's good to see you," he admitted. "Sit down for a few minutes?"
"Yeah." Indigo raised his voice to the woman bartending, and the smile this time was brighter, warmer. More artificial. "Hey, Jeannie, do me a favor and put this guy's drinks on my tab? I'll settle up out of my tips, okay?"
The blond nodded, eyeing Corviss curiously, and then the dancer jerked his head toward one of the semi-private booths near the back. "You wanna - ? It's easier to talk back there. Maybe prevent you from getting recognized." Indigo's tone was slightly bitter for that, and his eyes dropped briefly before coming back to Copeland's face.
"You don't -" Copeland started to protest, but he paused and tilted his head a bit, studying the change in Steve's - no, in Indigo's face. He nodded briefly, picking up his drink. "Good idea," he murmured and stood, waiting for the dancer to lead the way. He felt Corviss bristle a bit at the bitterness in the words but he didn't answer to it, not right there.
The back booths had curtains that could be pulled, doubtless to encourage certain kinds of bargaining that the strip shows were only a prelude for. Indigo drew the curtain halfway, but left some space he could look out in. Once he'd settled on one side of the booth, arms crossed on the table, he just stopped and stared at Copeland. "I didn't think I was going to ever see you again," he said softly after a few uncomfortable moments.
Copeland followed, moving a little awkwardly between the tables, something Corviss would never do. He settled opposite Indigo and flushed a bit at the scrutiny, dropping his eyes. "I didn't really mean for what happened to...to happen," he finished, rolling his eyes at how ridiculous it sounded. "They just came up to me after the show and handed me the contract."
He shifted and glanced out between the curtains. "I never got a chance to thank you," he added, and this last was in a tone much flatter and more rote than anything he'd said so far. He did have Steve to thank for the last ten years, but considering he, Copeland, had spent most of them watching through Corviss's eyes, he wasn't entirely sure what exactly he had to be thankful for.
"No. No, you didn't. Never had a chance to say much of anything, did you?" Indigo asked, and his voice was tight with remembered hurt. He hadn't expected to get into this right away ... but why not? He had thought Copeland might not even remember, but the dancer guessed he must have.
"I haven't had a chance to say much of anything for ten years," Copeland said very quietly, staring at his drink, his shoulders hunched slightly. He looked drawn-in, nothing like the larger-than-life attitude he usually projected. "I'm sorry, Steve, I didn't mean to just...leave you behind. I don't really know what happened." He looked up again, meeting his eyes, looking penitent. "How have you been?" he asked, knowing the question was entirely inadequate but having no idea what else to say.
Indigo's face had slipped into a morass of anger and regret, but it softened just a little at that look. He supposed the PR people had probably been keeping a tight lid on Corviss. But still, he could have tried to find Steve again! Not just disappeared! "Oh, you know. I get by." The dancer wasn't about to go into how close he'd come to repossession on several occasions now. Not and risk looking like he was begging for handouts. "This place is a shithole, but I guess I never rated much better than that. Like that place we were at, back in '46. You remember?"
"Oh god, the floors in that place, it was like they sucked at your shoes," Copeland answered, closing his eyes in remembrance, grimacing a bit. He shook his head, staring at his drink again. "Corviss was a good idea after all," he said with a tight bitterness, his hands white-knuckled around the glass. "So good I haven't been able to drop him for more than a few minutes at a time in ten years," he added in a lower voice that sounded almost desperate.
Indigo's brow furrowed, bringing more of the old Steve back. "What do you mean?"
Copeland's eyes were closed, his face tense as he wrestled with his thoughts, quite literally. Corviss was straining to get back to the surface, to keep Copeland from saying anything, but the sight of Steve's different yet achingly familiar face had made Copeland more determined than he'd been for years.
"Remember when we first came up with him?" he whispered, pushing the glass aside, running his fingers through his gelled hair, the follicles now permanently black. He'd never have the soft sandy-brown again. "I strutted in front of your mirror for hours, trying to get him right. Sexy, arrogant, you said he had to look down on everyone, that no one could be as good as him, he had to think that."
"I remember ... " Indigo said softly.
* * * * * * * * * *
"Look, I told you, Josh, you have to have a stage persona. The only people who know you're a fantastic singer right now are me, your mom, and that old guy who sweeps the floors here. They're never going to invite you back after this week if you don't add a little flash," Steve told his friend, running a critical hand through the newly dyed locks. "I can make you look good, but you have to sell it."
Josh stared at his face in the mirror, paler than before beneath the jet-black. "Steve, I don't..." He sighed in frustration, shaking his head a bit. The hair fell in front of his eyes, and it was a good look for him, but he still looked... "Too nice," he said at last, making a face and sitting back. "I look too nice." He stood and walked to the mirror again, striking a pose and narrowing his eyes in what he'd hoped would be a threatening look but only resulted in making him look as if he was holding back a sneeze.
Steve snickered. "Not constipated, arrogant," he clarified. "If you look like you think you're God's gift, people will buy it. Here, try this." And Steve demonstrated, raising one thin eyebrow and pursing his lips in a half sneer. It made him look cold and distant. "That's the face that's going to get me to the big time. Fuck those Genterns."
The dancer looked over his friend one more time. " ... you need eyeliner, though. You've got gorgeous brown eyes, but you need something to make them stand out more. We can try that ... "
Josh looked dubious, but he shook his head again, dropping the hair in front of his eyes. "Brown eyes aren't all that special," he pointed out as he stepped away from the mirror and back to the chair to let Steve try the eyeliner. It didn't matter anyway, he told himself. This was just for fun.
"That's a good face," he added with a smile, looking up at his friend. "Makes you look like you don't give a shit about anyone. Perfect."
"You know how I got that?" Steve lectured, and he dug through his make-up kit and pulled out a compact of black liner, wetting his brush before loading it with the thick, black stuff. "Practice. Practice, practice, practice. You gotta get in the right mindset and then just make the face over and over. And walk. You have to practice walking. Tilt your head up toward me."
The dancer carefully inked one of his friend's eyes, making the lines thick but even. Steve loved Josh's eyes, so warm and inviting, not like his own boring ones. But he supposed brown wasn't really in. And probably waxing poetic on the singer's eyes would give away the fact that Steve had had a crush on his friend for a long time now. He'd never said anything about it, and he never planned to. For one thing, Josh was straight. For another, that kind of thing was a great way to seriously fuck up a friendship, and the dancer was pretty sure no one in the whole world understood him the way Joshua Copeland did. He wasn't giving that up, no way, no how. How could he go on without his best friend? They'd said they were going to do this together, make it big, and Steve wasn't messing that up.
"Maybe green," he said thoughtfully. "Contacts."
Josh looked up and to the left, holding still as Steve applied the liner. It felt odd, but he trusted Steve to know what he was doing. He'd seen what he could do, making up his own face, and Josh would readily admit that he could make himself look fantastic. "Can I borrow your face as a starter?" he asked jokingly, smiling, waiting until Steve had finished before standing.
He didn't look in the mirror right away, instead closing his eyes as he walked to the full-length mirror and struck the pose again. It was looser this time, it made him look taller, and he opened his eyes and glared at the mirror in disbelief and disdain. He held it for almost ten seconds before snorting with laughter and relaxing. "It's a start," he admitted, turning back to Steve with a shrug. "I like the green contacts idea. Really bright. And maybe all-black clothes, to make them look even brighter?"
"All black is classic," the skinnier man agreed. "We probably want to do something with your face, maybe add a little pale foundation. Even out your skin tone. But you don't need much, you've already got a great bone structure. Black and white and green. They'll eat it up."
Steve's smile turned genuinely disdainful, as opposed to the prettier, more cultivated cold. "Fucking assholes. It's all about looks for them, and if you can't afford the fucking surgery ... well, they're gonna see something beautiful out there, and then they're gonna really listen and hear something beautiful. If we have to bilk the rubes to get them in here for your voice, fine."
Josh glanced at the mirror again, the disillusionment and frustration clearly visible in his eyes. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Gotta have something worth putting on the sign, I guess." He turned away from it sharply, unconsciously twisting his hips, already starting to move with more confidence.
"This is...I'm so glad you're helping me. I really don't think I could manage this without you, Steve," he added seriously, glancing at him as he moved to the closet to start looking for anything black amid the bright colors. "What about my name? Keep it or change it, make a stage name?" he asked, moving past the slightly awkward moment of gratitude.
"Stage name's probably better. Not a lot of people want to turn up for Josh the Singing Sensation, anymore than they want to see Steve the Dancing Fool." He'd been experimenting with stage names himself, but he hadn't settled on one yet. He was thinking something foreign might go with his own style. Dimitri, maybe. Or Vladimir. "Josh ... you know I know you're the real thing, right? I mean, even with all this bullshit we have to go through. You're the best singer I ever heard. Even better than Mag." And in Steve's biased view, it was true. Josh was amazing. The best. People just had to open their ears and listen!
Halfway through pulling down a black patterned button-down silk shirt he'd bought to wear at a funeral years ago, Josh paused and looked at Steve, blushing lightly. "You're no fool, Steve, you're great," he said softly, smiling at his friend. "I know it. That's why I know with you helping me, I can make it. We can make it." He wasn't sure about 'better than Mag', he aspired to be even half as good as Mag. He had a good technical talent and he poured emotion into his songs that made them real for his listeners, that connected them all together.
"Black," he mused, running a finger over the patterned shirt. "Something black, and shiny. Flashy. Eye-catching. And kind of...hissy," he added, making a cat-claw motion and half-lidding his eyes as he unbuttoned the white shirt they'd had him wear for the dye job and slipped on the black.
"Hissy?" Steve laughed, but that look ... "Hey! Hey, do that thing again! With your eyes."
"What?" Josh glanced up, halfway through buttoning the shirt, only the two center buttons. He half-lidded his eyes again, lifting his brows just a bit, the black locks falling across his forehead and barely above his eyes. "This?" he asked in a bored voice a few tones lower than his usual pleasant tenor speaking voice.
"Oh my god, that's pure sex," the dancer exclaimed in excitement. He came over and yanked on Josh's elbow, pulling him over to the mirror and planting the singer squarely in front of it. "Okay, now do it again," he instructed, hands on the taller man's shoulders and peering around the side to watch the effect in the mirror.
"It's what?" Josh let himself be pulled over to the mirror, laughing, then took a deep breath. "Okay, don't make me laugh or I can't do it," he cautioned Steve, smiling excitedly at him in the mirror. He closed his eyes and composed himself, then twisted his hips a bit and opened his eyes, half-lidded like before, brows raised, staring himself down in the mirror. He looked as if he was just daring someone to prove to him why the fuck he should care about them.
He blinked a few times as he relaxed, still staring at the mirror. "Wow." The shirt hung loose on him, he'd lost weight and grown taller since he'd bought it, and it seemed to cling to the right places without being buttoned any more than it was. With his black hair and the dark, just slightly smudged liner around his eyes, he looked...yeah. Sexy.
"That's it. That's the look that'll pack 'em in like sardines," Steve said, and there was a vicious sort of joy in his voice. "I mean, it could use refining .... but god, look at you! It's perfect."
Josh stared at himself in the mirror and a slow, lazy smile slunk onto his face. "If it needs refining," he said in the same lower, darker, more sultry voice, "let's refine. Green contacts, and a name. Black, something..." He glanced to the side, thinking, running his fingers over the pattern in the shirt. It was abstract, woven in a shinier black fabric against the matte, but in a certain light it almost looked like feathers.
"Something animal," the dancer suggested in a soft voice. "God, that's eerie."
Josh met Steve's eyes in the mirror, holding the look, starting to practice now. He raised one brow lightly. "How is it eerie?" he asked, taking a step toward the mirror and turning, popping his hip out. "Black leather. And boots," he muttered to himself as he did a runway turn and walked away from the mirror. Now that he had the look, he had to get the movement.
The dancer swallowed. "Ah ... less with the hip. That's a little, ah ... " Blinking, Steve glanced to the singer's face again. "It's eerie because it doesn't look like you," he said simply.
Shifting a bit self-consciously, Josh straightened and stood with his hip pushed out to a far lesser degree, far more natural and flowing. "Good," he said firmly, glaring at himself in the mirror. "Doesn't have to look like me, it has to look like someone you want to get to know better. A lot better."
His shoulders were pushed back and he leaned forward, projecting arrogance at his reflection. "Maybe a bird? Some all-black bird, like a crow, or a raven." He didn't look satisfied with that, though, it wasn't right, it didn't sound how he looked.
"I like you just fine," Steve said softly, but really, only someone listening close would have caught it. "Yeah, Raven's good, but you want to disguise it. Make it a little more exotic, evocative of the thing, not the actual thing, you know? Is there other words for that? Like, foreign words?"
Josh was only half-listening and entirely missed Steve's quiet words. "Yeah, something...I used to know what they were called, all the birds like that, starts with a C..." There was an old dictionary being used as an end table and Josh liberated it and turned to the C's. "Crow...'any of several large oscine birds of the genus Corvus..." He trailed off, staring at the word.
"That's got a good sound to it," Steve said thoughtfully. "Kind of mysterious."
"Yeah, but it's not...right," Josh said, tapping his finger against it. "It needs refining too. C-O-R-V-U-S, it's clumsy. It doesn't look right." He laughed suddenly, his face lightening, posture relaxing. "It isn't hissy enough," he added with a grin.
Steve grinned, relieved to see the old Josh, though he wouldn't say so out loud. "You want hissy, you add more esses," he advised.
"That just looks ridiculous," Josh protested, making a face as he pictured it in his mind. Then his face cleared and he looked thoughtful. "Unless we change..." He grabbed a pencil and wrote in the margin of the dictionary C-O-R-V-I-S-S. "Corviss," he said in the new, silky-sultry voice, drawing out the sibilance and throwing the bored half-lidded glare at the mirror again, unconsciously adjusting his posture to match.
"Yeah .... yeah, that fits," the dancer agreed. "You put all that together, and you're gonna rise fast. Real fast." Faster than me;, Steve thought, but then he'd always known his friend had far more natural talent than he ever would. It was okay. They'd still do it together.
"You're going to make the girls practically wet their pants, you try that out tonight," he added with a weak smile.
Josh smiled, a cold, vicious smile, but then straightened and shook his head. "I can't, I want it to be perfect before we try it," he said in his normal voice, taking the black shirt off and hanging it up carefully. "Just a few more things, more practice. Then we can try it."
He picked up the discarded white shirt, but paused before putting it on, Steve's words catching up with him. "This is still us, you know," he said, giving Steve a serious look. "I'd go crazy trying to do this without you. You know that, right?"
The dancer found himself flushing. This was why he was never going to get over his stupid crush - Josh was so damn sweet. So loyal. The best goddamn friend - "Yeah, yeah, I know. Stop, you're going to make me cry," Steve said in a teasing tone as he mimed sobbing into a hand, though the high color in his cheeks said he had reacted despite the complete uncoolness of it.
"You got no fashion sense, so you better not leave me behind, Copeland."
"I bought this shirt," Josh protested, pointing at the black shirt, then paused. "...Shit, you gave me that shirt. That isn't the shirt I thought it was. Okay, fine, you have better fashion sense than me. Why do you think I trusted you to help me with this? No one better," he replied with a smile, putting the white shirt back on, leaving it unbuttoned.
"Speaking of trusting you, can you, um..." He pointed at his thick, smoky eyeliner. "I don't think I'm supposed to sleep in it, and honestly, I have no idea how to get this off."
The helpless look on the singer's face broke any tension there might have been, as Steve started laughing. "You dork, it's not that hard," he chided, still grinning. "Come here. You have to use make-up remover ... " He pulled out a bottle and walked Josh through the steps of getting it all off, helping him where necessary with firm but gentle hands, keeping his eyes carefully on the singer's face instead of letting them wander downward.
"I'll show you how to put the other stuff on, too, unless you're going to hire me to be your make-up artist when you're world famous," the dancer said, smirking. "And it takes practice, too, and a steady hand, so think about putting me on the payroll."
"Of course I am," Josh answered, wiping the cream from his face and blinking at how much of a difference the eyeliner had made, now that he saw his face without it again. Oddly, he looked forward to putting it on again. "Makeup artist and costume mistress," he teased lightly, leaning back to dig an elbow into Steve's hip where he stood behind the chair.
The smaller man smacked Josh lightly in the back of the head, snorting. "Mistress. I don't do drag all the time, you know, jack-ass. And you're going to have to pay me really good. I have some procedures I want done, and you'll have to keep me in the style I'm accustomed to," Steve sniffed, affecting a bad British accent for the last line.
"Okay, Jeeves," Josh said sarcastically. "Keep me looking really good and I'll pay you really good, and buy you all sorts of treats," he promised, leaning back and smiling at Steve in the mirror, laughter in his deep brown eyes. "You're the only one I'd let smack my head backstage, too. It's a privilege given to only a select few." He turned his head, still not used to the black hair, running his fingers through it.
"That's because I do it the best, and you know I could take you in a fight," Steve declared, absurdly. He ruffled his own fingers through the midnight mass fondly. "You know ... I think you're really going places, Josh. I mean, we are. For real, this time."
"Please, I could break you in half," Josh replied fondly, tipping his head back into Steve's fingers and smiling up at him. "I think we are too, Steve. Thank you."
The dancer smiled down at his friend, that soft, uncertain smile that was so utterly Steve. It was the smile he'd flashed the first time they met, some years ago, the smile that said he wasn't sure if you were going to hug him or hit him, but he was going to hope for the best, even if he was kind of afraid. "So, um, you want to go out tonight? To celebrate? Or get some beers, bring them home?"
"Yeah, let's get something and bring it back here," Josh agreed happily. "We can put the finishing touches on our plan for world domination. Besides, just because my hair is dyed black doesn't mean it can just lie here like this," he added, running his fingers through it again. "It needs to be more hissy." He snickered, realizing that 'hissy' was going to become the word they'd use to describe the Corviss stage persona. It wouldn't matter what it was, it would need to be more 'hissy'.
"Yeah, and beer'll help with that," Steve said, sniggering right back. "Come on, get your ass in gear." The beer run would be accompanied by a lot of joking, elbows, and pointing out various 'hissy' things they saw along the way. Steve was starting to feel better about the whole thing again, less weirded out by how completely Josh had transformed for awhile there. It was just Josh, and if the dancer could put on a stage persona, so could his friend. It didn't mean anything!
"Beer helps with everything!" Getting up, Josh buttoned up the shirt absently and they headed out. A scaffold was described as sufficiently hissy to include in the act, possibly as something for Josh to climb around on in a sexy way. The ratio of tight leather pants to ease of climbing was addressed, with an addendum on the relative heaviness of big stompy boots. Josh was laughing hard as they got back to the apartment, carrying beer and takeout, riding high on the excitement of having begun to develop a look, a look that would really work.
They both wolfed down the food, consuming the beer with equal vigor. And if little was said about Steve's own career, well, that was okay. Plans were made, both for Josh's new way of doing things, and of course for what they would do when they got stinking rich. That was an old game, tossing back and forth ideas of all the things they could buy, the places they could go, things they could do. Not surprisingly, much of what the dancer wanted centered around making people he'd known sorry they'd ever treated him crappy. But there were pie in the sky dreams about a new surgery every month, living somewhere way up in one of the tallest high rises ... the plans got more and more ridiculous the more beer was drunk.
"I think...that...we will need a room with...a glass ceiling," Josh said slowly and deliberately, very serious, lying on his back on the bed and staring at the off-white, water stained ceiling they had now. He had a half-finished beer that he was occasionally sipping from, but he felt fantastic already, on top of the world, and warmly grateful to Steve. "You are a good friend, my friend," he said, poking Steve in the side.
"What, because of a glass ceiling?" Steve asked, sniggering. "That's your idea."
"No, not the glass ceiling, which we are going to need," Josh said, shaking his head in a rather confusing way. "You are a good friend because...because all we're talking about is me. You're coming with me, whatever happens, but Steve, what about you?" The chocolate brown eyes watched him intently, more sharply than usual, possibly because he was having some slight trouble focusing. "What do you want? Not the glass ceiling and surgeries and gold-plated walls, not that, I just mean...you know, you. What would make you happy?"
"That's a stupid question," the smaller man told Josh, "Haven't we just been talking about that?" It was a bit of a dodge, though. Mostly because he didn't want to answer the question all the way.
"I don't know. I mean, I want to be a good dancer. Like, the kind that'll kick everyone's ass. But that's not going to happen. You have to have training for that stuff, and even with money ... well, I'm too old to start now, probably. And I really would like to see Dirk Johnson roasted on a spit. Like really, really bad."
There was a pause as Steve considered the question seriously. "I guess ... I don't know. I just want to be around you. You know, watch you make it and stuff. That'd be pretty cool. Just ... hang out forever, I guess." He flushed a little and glanced down at the mostly empty beer bottle dangling between his knees. It was a little too uncomfortably close to the truth. "There you go, stupid answer for a dumb question."
Josh listened, watching him intently, interested in his answer even if he was looking at him upside down. He smiled affectionately at him, reaching up a hand to punch him playfully and gently in the arm. "That's my plan," he said with full confidence, resting his hand on Steve's shoulder. "Hang out forever and get to the top together. It wouldn't be any fun without you there."
"Yeah. Yeah, exactly," Steve agreed, looking back at his friend with an oddly wistful expression. "No fun at all. You just ... you know, when you find your perfect wife and everything. Don't let her kick me out, right?"
"Oh, fuck that," Josh said, a bit more forcefully than he'd intended. "You're not going anywhere. Fuck, married? I don't even want to get married, let alone to some bitch who would make me choose between her and you." He sat up and faced him, a serious expression on his face as he repeated, "You're not going anywhere."
"You don't want to get married now, but there's gonna be some real fine women after you, you know," Steve said, a little bitterly. "That's how it goes. But, you know, as long as you know who your friends are. And I'm always going to be your friend, okay? .... fuck, I sound like a twelve year old girl."
"You don't look like one," Josh pointed out with what, to him, was perfect logic. "I don't care what women throw themselves at me, doesn't mean I want to marry one. Whatever, of course you're always going to be my friend, and I'm always going to be yours. Fuck, Steve, you can ask me for anything, you know that, right?" The brown eyes scanned his, searching for that knowledge, and he leaned in closer than he would have if he hadn't been as drunk as he was.
Oh, Josh, don't do this to me, this is so unfair. The dancer sighed. "Yeah, I know," he said softly. "Just some things are better not to ask for." Blue eyes blinked back at the singer, wide and startled and horribly vulnerable.
Josh looked concerned and put a hand over Steve's on the bed. "What's wrong, Steve? You look so sad. Is it me?" He meant to ask if Steve was disappointed they were only working toward his success and not toward Steve's, but Josh wasn't very good at explaining himself when he was drunk.
"Oh, shit, yeah ... no, it's ... really. It's a really bad idea to have this conversation. Oh, man, I'm too drunk," the dancer mumbled, feeling a weird warmth spreading from the spot where Josh's hand touched his. This was the absolute worst time for this to be happening ...
"No time like the present for anything," Josh answered earnestly. "What's that fucking...phrase...carpe something. Diem. Carpe diem, Steve. You can tell me anything." He smiled brightly at his friend, his heart filled with warmth and camaraderie and the desire to make him feel better, just like Steve was always so good at making Josh feel better.
"Josh, wow, you really don't know what you're asking," Steve almost moaned, but he was caught by the warmth in those brown eyes, and he swallowed heavily. "You're not ... not that way. You'd hate me."
"Of course I don't know what I'm asking, that's why I'm asking." Josh looked hurt. "I'd never hate you," he said softly, tilting his head a bit to better focus on Steve's face. "Steve, you're going to have me worried in a minute. Are you in trouble? Wait..." The rest of Steve's words sunk in and he looked confused. "I'm not what way?"
"You're straight," the dancer said softly, and helplessly his hand rose to ghost fingers over the other man's cheek. "Shit."
"I'm..." Josh's eyes widened as he felt the very light touch of Steve's fingers against his cheek. "Steve, what...fuck, wait, what?" Josh sat up a bit, watching him a bit warily. "I don't care that you're gay, you know I don't, I never did."
The dancer pulled back, hand to has narrow chest as if he'd been burned. "Nevermind. God! Forget I said anything, okay? I'm drunk. That's all. Stupid and drunk." He dropped his gaze, not wanting to look at Josh, his cheeks flushed with alcohol and embarrassment. Emphasis on the stupid.
"Hey, easy," Josh said gently. "You're not stupid, Steve. Come on, don't be like that. I'm sorry." But Josh's shoulders had tensed a bit and he didn't have quite the same easy feeling sitting by Steve on his bed.
"No, it's not you," Steve said hastily. He was a solid brick red now. "It's me. Really." He glanced up briefly through a fringe of dyed crimson hair. "Just ... trust me it's better not to ask some things, okay? You're probably the most important person in my life right now and stuff, and I'm not ... I don't want anything to fuck that up."
"Okay," Josh said, holding up a hand in a way he hoped was reassuring. "I didn't mean to push you, Steve. I'm sorry. It's okay, we can drop it."
Steve's shoulders relaxed slightly, and he smiled gratefully at his friend. "Okay. Um, thanks. I really ... well, you know I love you, man."
Josh grinned, and there was just a hint of tightness there that he smoothed away as fast as he could. "I know it," he said carelessly, reaching out a hand to tousle his hair. "Me too. Fuck, what time is it?" Josh squinted at the clock. "Should sleep soon, I guess."
"Yeah, I guess so," Steve agreed, and the look he gave Josh in his relief was pure mooniness and adoration. "Pretty late." He flopped back on the bed and contemplated the ceiling, hair making a sloppy corona around his head. "You remember ... oh, man, when we were teenagers. And you used to sleep over. And my mom would get in from work in the morning and we'd still be up because we'd been talking all night, and she'd make us breakfast. The shittiest eggs you'd ever had."
Josh's heart lurched a bit at the look Steve gave him and he felt it sink as that look confirmed everything he'd been worrying about. "Yeah," he said after a few moments, staring at the wall as if remembering. "We'd try to protest and tell her we'd already eaten, or make her let us make them, and she never let us." He smiled a bit, in spite of himself. "I first learned to like hot sauce because of your mom's crappy eggs."
The smaller man laughed. "Yeah, you thought I was crazy for using it so much." His memories filled him with a warm flush, complimenting the beer. Sitting in the tiny kitchen at the tiny kitchen table, watery light filtering in through the dirty window ... they'd laughed then. A lot. Still did. No, no way he was giving that up. Josh had a way of making him forget about other shit, even when his mom had been turning tricks and he'd been slowly failing out of school ...
* * * * * * * * * *
"Steve?" Copeland's voice was gentle as he watched him. "You're thinking awfully hard," he said quietly. "Are you all right?"
Indigo glanced back up at Copeland, blinking, and feeling like he'd just been hit in the gut. God, he'd tried so hard to put all that in the past. He'd given up on his friend a long time ago and it had broken his heart. It was right after that that he'd started taking up his mom's business in earnest, to earn the money for the surgeries ... "Yeah, yeah, fine." The smile that flashed out of the dancer's face was bright and utterly fake. "Just thinking. It's been so long. I'm surprised you even remember me."
A shard of pain flashed through Copeland's heart as he saw that awful fake smile directed at him. He was one of them now, to Steve, he was just someone else who would get the mask. That deserved the mask. He dropped his eyes and stared at the scarred, scratched wood of the tabletop. "Of course I do," he said quietly. "I think about you every day." That emphasis on 'I', that strange duality again.
Indigo laughed. There was little humor in it; it sounded painful, like it was shredding his throat a little to do it. "Come on, you don't have to say that just because you're here. I'm not going to try and beat you up for leaving me behind. That was a long time ago. And I was a dead weight. You did great for yourself, no need to lie to make me feel better."
Copeland looked up at him and his eyes were angry, terrified, but above all, hunted. "I do," he whispered. "But Corviss doesn't." His eyes widened in panic and there was the faintest edge of green to them. "Oh, fuck," he whispered. "I shouldn't have said it." His hand shot out and gripped Indigo's, hard, as he met his eyes again. "He's coming back. I'm sorry, Steve, I didn't mean to leave you behind, but it wasn't up to me. Corviss isn't me, he -" He gasped, his face going white, and squeezed his eyes shut tightly.
Then his demeanor changed, as if another soul had slipped into his body, and he relaxed, his shoulders regaining their arrogant tilt. He tossed his hair out of his face with an annoyed flick of his head and his eyes were emerald green as they regarded Indigo with amusement. "God, cry more, emo kid," Corviss muttered. "He's so fucking annoying."
Indigo blinked in confusion. It was impossible to tell what was going on - one moment Copeland had seemed to be confessing something, and now this weird, abrupt change. "Who's 'he'?" the dancer asked, trying to catch up.
"Fucking Copeland," Corviss answered in an annoyed voice, then he shook his head a bit. "Doesn't matter. Got stood up, I have to go find that necromerchant. Bitch. Nice talking to you, kid," he added with a smirk, sliding to one side of the booth and glancing out, his movements now smooth and sinuous, not the awkward grace of a few minutes ago.
"Thanks, by the way," he added, looking back at him with a wolfish grin. "If it wasn't for you, he wouldn't have come up with me. Does that make you my dad?" he asked mockingly as he stood.
In sheer self defense Indigo slid back into his own facade. It wasn't another personality, certainly, but the demeanor was entirely different. He slid out of the booth himself, tilting his head to look up at Corviss in a way designed to make his eyes look large and dark, chin smaller, and his lips pursed into a coy pout. "Oh, that's too easy," the dancer said in a light, teasing tone. "The 'Who's your daddy?' jokes would never end, and I'm really not that retro, honey."
Corviss raised a brow at the abrupt change, malicious amusement in his eyes. There wasn't a trace of brown left now as he tilted his hips and folded his arms, every inch GeneCo's poster boy. "Thank god, I don't think I could keep it up for long." He reached out to tousle Indigo's hair in a mocking imitation of the gesture Josh had once used on him, years ago. "You keep up the good work, kid," he said with a smirk as he dropped his hand and turned smoothly on his heel, starting to pick his way between the tables toward the door, laughing a bit under his breath at the pain Copeland was feeling, the pain he'd inadvertently caused his best friend, and the man who had fallen for him so softly ten years ago.
Once Corviss' back was to him, Indigo let his face fall into the angry lines he seldom showed anyone these days. It was anger he'd tried to leave behind, the too-young voice in him hollering, It's not FAIR! Everything was made worse by the utter confusion. Had Josh been making fun of him? Letting himself take on his stage persona just to rub in how many worlds apart they were these days? But it had been so strange ...
Indigo hoped he wouldn't come back. Ever. It raised too many painful memories that he had labored to leave behind. The night was ruined, and as he made his way back to the bar, one of the waitresses shot him a startled look. She'd never seen the usually happy-go-lucky dancer scowling like that.
"Whiskey neat," Indigo told the bartender. "Keep them coming."