To Love/Hate the Spotlight

My POV:

"Babe, could you get me some cigarettes?" Billie murmured from under the mound of blankets and pillows he layered himself under. Sounding so pitiful broke my heart and I forgot my earlier humiliation, so I accepted.

"I'll get some medicine too." He had to be coming down with something.

Slipping on my blue blockers -which should have been reminder of enough of the brown-eyed guitarist- I trotted down the bus stairs and went straight for the near empty gas station. I knew Mike and Tre were already inside, but I made the mistake of pausing at the door and peering through the stickered glass: There was Frank staring determinedly at something and the rest of his band perusing the aisles. Then I remembered why I was in the bunk area to begin with, I was hiding from Frank. Because I'm an idiot. I still couldn't believe I did that.

"Oh, it was nothing! Seriously, get over it. It's fine if no one knows."

Except him. He knows.

Cool AC blew my bangs back, my skin prickled upon entering. That stupid, monotone beep announcing my entrance to everyone. My eyes immediately locked with Frank's without meaning to, and I tore them away to march over to the front counter. Two steps --wait, crap, I was getting medicine too. Looking like a moron, I backtracked, going left instead of right, past Tre stocking up on junk food.

Every aisle I passed had one of them in it, and it was my luck that the meds would be located next to the candy -which is kind of disconcerting if you think about it- and came to include the explanation of what Frank was looking at so closely.

Cough syrup, cough drops, cough strips, throat sprays, nasal sprays, heartburn pills, headache pills, menstrual pills-- okay, those are for me; I tucked those into my palm. A bag of Skittles was snatched just inside my peripheral, but I resolutely kept my visual attention focused on the drugs before me. If I so much as glanced that would bring forth all the pending awkwardness, and it would just be a disaster---

"What did I do earlier?" a warm voice inquired softly beside my ear. I wanted to snap at him for disregarding my desire to avoid him for maybe a day or two, to forget, but that might sound petty and just a touch neurotic. I wouldn't have that.

"Nothing," I whispered harshly. My traitorous mind flashed an image of a near cross-eyed Frank, confusion and something else shining in dilated pupils flickering from my lowered lashes down to--- my mouth? I lightly shuddered. What was I thinking?

"Nothing? Then why did you subject me to Mike making goo goo eyes at a phone and watch The Price is Right with Tre? Have you ever watched The Price is Right with Tre? It's hellish: He yells at the screen and substitutes items with acts of sexual deviancy. What in God's name is 'The Bullwinkle' [1] by the way?" He'd said it all in one breath, his chest slightly heaving.

"Er..." My fingers raked through my hair. "1) I didn't mean to; 2) I have watched it with him and never again; 3) You do not want to know." The clean up of that mess still haunted me.

"Um okay...?" His mouth tugged into a half-crooked smile. "If this is about earlier and the close thing, I don't mind. It's nothing to be embarrassed about--"

"I'm not embarrassed." Mortified but not embarrassed. I grabbed a multi-symptom syrup. I don't know what's wrong with him. I'm not a doctor.

"Okay. If you're not then I'm sure you'll have no problem watching a movie on our bus." I think my stomach dropped. "I was going to ask before, but it didn't seem like a good time then."

And it's not a good time now.

It's not that I don't like Frank; he's great and I love movies. It's the teensy weensy fact that his band mates would be there, and it's not like I don't like them either. They've been nothing but polite, maybe too polite. They treat me like--... I don't know how to put it. I just remember my family and I treated my uncle the same way right after he got out of prison.

On top of all that, The Original would be there too. And with the dreams I've been having, it hurt to look at him. Why put myself in that situation?

"Come on," he coaxed, "I've got an impressive collection of zombie and slasher flicks."

My pointed tooth ground a familiar tenderness into my tongue. "... zombies, you say?"

His bright smile confirmed that, yes, this just might be a bad idea.

"When you said come watch a movie, I thought you meant on an actual TV screen. In the front. With other people."

"Well, to be fair I never specified. This just happens to be on my laptop screen. In my bunk. This is fine though, right?" He looked up, the pale glow of the computer casting hazy shadows across his face.

I could only nod, leaning against the bunk but disinclined to actually sit down.

After dropping off the bag and telling a mildly interesting Mike where I'd be, I hopped over to the other bus and just like I had expected I was welcomed like a strip of toilet paper stuck to Frank's shoe: They either nodded or murmured a word of greeting, except The Original who elicited the warmest reception and seemed eager to join in but I think he sensed my reluctance to which he casually found something else to do. Sometimes I wish I had the gall to explain it to him -to clear the air, what have you- but that would mean interacting with him, talking to him, looking at him... Anyway, how could he possibly understand? How could anyone when even I could hardly articulate it into words? My better judgment sent a warning throb to my head to even contemplate such a task.

"And we - are - set." Frank tapped on two more keys -I think mostly for show- as the FBI warning flashed up in bold white on blue. Getting up, he slid the laptop to the foot of the bed and motioned at the vacant half. "Get comfortable while I set the ambiance." He reached to shut each bunk's curtains after doing his own, progressively blocking out the sunlight and throwing the small sleeping area into moderate darkness, save the electric glow.

If I didn't know better and thought with typical paranoia, I'd suspect Frank had ulterior motives other than just an innocent movie with a friend. But the thing was it's Frank and we were just friends. Besides... He's famous, just getting over a divorce, and I'm happily married. So why should I act like a whinging priss when I'm clearly reading too much into things? Nope, history teachers and delusional vampires were mostly my forte anyways.

I crawled into the small twin and settled onto my stomach, resting my chin atop my folded arms. The opening credits of static and raw footage and the telltale signs of a nasty epidemic sweeping the nation flashed across the screen, filling my gut with giddy anticipation.

The mattress jolted and shifted under Frank as he adopted a variance to my pose. "D'you want anything?" A bag rattled and a scatter of Skittles pelted my arm and showered the bed spread.

"No," I hedged away with a sneer, "I'm good."

"Don't say I didn't ask." He picked a red piece off the keyboard and popped it into his mouth.

From there the movie wore on and luckily conversation was few and far between with the occasional snorts of amusement or small shudders of disgust and the trademark Don't go in there, you idiot murmured under out breaths. Even after nine and a half times of seeing this movie, the survivors' mad dash through the sewers after their heroic yet needless rescue of the dumb ginger that stole a truck to retrieve her dog (which wasn't really in danger to begin with) across a parking lot writhing with a sea of rotting cannibals still conjured a little anxious leap in my chest. The old hick broke or sprained his leg jumping into the man hole so the jackass mall cop had to drag him through the tunnel, forced to gun down the rapidly pursuing undead. Quite a mouth full but what a rush.

"Shoot me! Shoot me!" screamed the hick while blackened teeth descended and clawing hands tore at living flesh and flailing limbs.

"What would you do?" Frank asked once the mercy bullets were fired.

"Wha?" My head turned but my eyes couldn't be torn away.

"If you were him."

"Well since I don't fancy getting eaten alive, I'd take the mercy kill."

"No, let's say if you were just bitten: Would you let yourself become a zombie or end it before you changed?"

"You know I never thought about it before." I frowned. One would think me being such an avid connoisseur for the cinema of the living dead, I would have pondered this myself.

Wait, I knew why: Zombies terrify me and--- "Neither, that could never happen."

"I know, that's why it's a hypothetical question."

"I don't do hypothetical questions. They're bothersome and cruel to the conscience." Did lifting my nose in the air and indulging in a small sniff make me look snobbish? Fuck it, I didn't care.

Instead of giving into his frustration and turning back to the movie -it was the part the muscled corpse caught the propane tank too!- he chuckled, only increasing my ire. "Is there anything normal you don't knock?"

"Of course there is..." The splash of blood and the whir of a chainsaw biting at flesh really stutters the mind. "What would you do?" I snapped -my tone petulant- when I couldn't think of anything.

"Simple." He shrugged in such nonchalance that it irritated me. "I'd kill myself. Rotting does nothing for the looks."

Gobsmacked and frustratingly so. "It's the looks that turn you off?"

"Literally. I mean, have you ever seen a sexy zombie?"

"Well no, but that shouldn't mean anything---" It did, I mentally corrected; that fact had crossed my mind when I took into consideration the highly unlikely odds of joining the ranks of the undead, but how vain does that sound?

"What about having the instinctual drive to devour human flesh?"

"Duh, that goes without saying--"

"No, no, it doesn't. It disgustingly goes with saying."

"That feasting upon our fellow man should be one of the main causes for suicide in case of infection--"

"Yes!"

"That taking bites out of people is wrong?"

"Yes!"

"Then why do you do it?"

"Ye--- what?" My lifting enthusiasm plummeted, extinguished like a growing flame.

"I asked--" like it was some pleasant chore. "Then why do you do it?"

"I don't."

"Those love bites on your husband...?"

"Are none of your business." Which was true but that never stopped me before from talking about it, sometimes in explicit detail judging by the company. I mean, come on--- have you seen Billie Joe? Who wouldn't brag about bedding him, be it a one night stand or a regular basis? The past hadn't taught me modesty. Once again though, it's Frank. We just got over one awkward innuendo, even though I mostly think in nothing but.

By now it seemed he completely forgot about the movie when it was drawing to its end; a waste that was. His scrutiny made me itch: My nose, my back, just behind my ear, places that randomly buzzed for my attention but acknowledging them would prove I'm nervous which I certainly was not.

I'm not.

Eventually he mused aloud, "I haven't seen any lately." And I didn't even need to ask to know what he meant.

"Just in places you can't see," I sighed, listening for the lonely thunderclap that signified a moderately satisfying ending. I always did like the credits better.

He hummed low in his throat till he grumbled something and I took it as the end of the conversation. I was too busy wondering if he could tell I was lying----- no, he couldn't; I'm too good at it. Truth was it had been a while -a short while, mind you- since Billie had been so tired and probably sick and in turn not up for it; and I've been forgetting I have needs. God, it's a wonder if I have a phantom dick since I think with it so much.

"... why'd you want to know," I asked, curious.

Darker now with the rolling credits and little help from the erratic flashes of rabid humans, I could still see his sly grin. Then the realization hit me: I was lured into this discussion and I stumbled smashingly into his trap. "I like to know certain things about people."

"But I didn't tell you anything."

He leaned in -grinning too widely- as if imparting some great secret. "Yeah, you did. You just have to know what you're looking for."

In this close of proximity with that boyish face forming a devil's grin and the lap top's cool glow, I suddenly remembered I was in a bed. In a bed with Frank fucking Iero, our bodies aligned from the hips down. In a bed practically alone with the curtains drawn; the images of gore splashing brilliantly in our minds and traces of rainbow sugar lingering on our tongues. In a bed when I haven't done anything with Billie in days. Then I had the sudden urge to find out how many Skittles Frank ate and if I could tell by tasting him------

I jerked back, banging my elbow into the wall and nearly biting a hole into my tongue. The prickling micro bursts of pain was a beautiful relief, giving me something to focus on.

"Something wrong?" He reached out, concern written in his brow.

That thought -the Skittles, the tasting- was not mine. It wasn't, I repeated like the Lord's Prayer in my head while subtly pushing back against the wall and hoping it would eventually give under my ministrations just to achieve that much more distance between us.

"Wh-" The lump in my throat refused to go down. Fuck, calm down. "What were you saying?" My voice was a pitch higher and daintily strangled. Please don't notice. Please don't notice. Please don't---

"Are you feeling okay? You look kinda flushed." His lips pouted the tiniest bit---

Stop that!

I shook my head to re-jumble thoughts that weren't acceptable, maybe they'd fall in a less disturbing order. How to remove myself from the situation: I'm trapped against a wall and a boy, a boy who's quite fit----

Damn it!

My left canine worried my bottom lip, digging a sharp nick in the flesh, a thin barely there millimeter of scarlet. One small suck to clean the surface moisture -copper atop sugar raw taste buds- and I was feeling better, more focused and forming less blasphemous thoughts when I re-met Frank's eyes. They just weren't meeting mine, seemingly more interested in -oh great- my stupid fucking teeth. I wonder what group he fit in: The What a shames, the That's hots, or the Vampires? Honestly, how commons. I knew now he wasn't the Huh, I hadn't noticeds since he's staring so blatantly at them. Why look at all?

"Oh, I know!" The Voice mentally waved its -though it didn't have any, odd- hand like a crazed student in a classroom of dolts. Lovely, I'm the dolt.

Why?

I inwardly groaned when its usual mocking croon lapsed into the slick, malicious tenor of Jimmy. "A) Look at the context of the conversation: He meant 'Love bites' in the literal sense. Blow Job was sporting those nauseating holes in his neck for weeks until recently. It's like asking the wife if her husband died; 'You haven't had a black eye lately.'

"B) He doesn't come off as entirely thick. Your arms are littered with pretty distinct scars. You may be used to 'em, but curiouser and curiouser in his eyes. The Vamp's role model caught on to it from Day One! And if you think about it, some are so far up you couldn't have possibly done them yourself -the bite on your neck is kind of a clincher- and your poor excuse of a husband obviously doesn't sport any fangs. Looks like you went through a stint in some twisted, fucked up, bloodletting harem.

"And finally C) Do you really have to ask? The oral daggers are hard to overlook. They make you look like some rabid succubus. That is why he is staring.

"Who knows, Frankie boy here just might want you to have a little nibble."

I tucked my lips into a tight seal and withstood the sharp points. I hate when it says things like that, because it means at some point I already thought this.

How much longer am I stuck in here? The darkness was entirely suffocating.

"Becky?"

A nervous laugh cracked unbidden from my lips. "Fine, I'm fine." Even the crazy idea that if The Original was also here, nothing detrimental could possibly happen screamed tempting. Honestly, how pathetic.

"Are you okay? It's like you're zoning out on me." His unsure smile coaxed a tentative one of my own, one more relaxed and reminding me, what was I thinking?

It's Frank.

"Sorry about that." My tongue swiped quickly to make sure the bleeding had stopped; it had. "I don't know where my mind is lately. So, what are we watching next?" I asked, reaching for the small stack of DVDs. It was quite a few more miles until the next venue.

*

No ones POV:

He had gotten off so late from work that he didn't need to have a mental debate over whether calling anyone at this hour would be considered normal or plain weird. He stumbled through his front door, dropping his keys to the musty floorboards and mildly starting at the jingle clang plop they made on impact. Kicking the door shut behind him and narrowly remembering to employ at least one lock, he dragged himself to the corner where his bed on its creaky box spring waited for him with comforting solidarity. He flopped down face first -getting more and more used to the curdling groan under his weight- and breathed in the suffocating darkness his lone pillow provided. His body was tense and no position he contorted in helped. He had been so close to nodding off at the cusp of his shift -almost face planting into the popping bursts of buttery kernels- and now he couldn't relax.

He'd only been too eager to vacate the premises after another hellish midnight opening show, but Rosie had literally dragged him into the dark, crowded theater and stood in the side aisle with drooping eyes to witness the film's last forty minutes. It at least explained the hordes of squealing, babbling girls. If Rosie's simpering on his arm hadn't angered him, what he saw on the screen certainly did.

"Isn't it romantic?" Rosie had whispered longingly into his ear but he had been too tired to pull away.
"No!" he wanted to shout, but he was sure he would only get hissed at by the pit of Estrogen avidly watching that tripe. It wasn't romantic, it was improbable. Lies. Girls just don't fall into your arms just because you tell them you love them and mean forever. He knew by experience that it did not work that way. You had to work for her and prove how much you love her and maybe if you're lucky, she'll stay. It was more realistic. His cheeks had flushed a brilliant red in the semi-dark when he realized he had once upon a time fell victim to that fantastical thinking. But he knew with the passing of the movie his affections were more genuine since after all this time he still cared about Her. Coming to a conclusion made him feel marginally better and gave him enough energy to stave off Rosie's constant advances and return home.

By now it was quite obvious sleep was not going to come naturally, but oh how he loathed to take a pill! He rolled over, blindly reaching around till his fingers brushed cool metal. They followed the path up and pinched the sharp protrusion. Click Click and light flooded the space. He cursed himself for always ending up looking dead on at the bare bulb's burst. So with one fist switching back and forth to rub out the neon glow burned into his retinas, he picked up days-accumulated mail laying in a messy pile beside the mattress. Bills, junk, a coupon for half off a cremation good till next year -comforting- and some magazines he had immediately subscribed to just to have something interesting to read. Maybe he'd make a trip to the library once he found where it was. He tossed aside the boring mail and blindly chose one of the magazines, a bright and colorful one with spiky lettering. Flopping back -the mag propped open on his chest- he flipped listlessly through the pages and noted the titles of articles and pictures with dwindling interest. He couldn't remember signing up for a music magazine, knowing that coming across a certain band would be detrimental to his health, not to mention a stab at his pride.

What pride? he thought with a bitter snort.

oh well there was nothing for it now. He was halfway done with it anyway. Eventually the pace increased with his impatience to be just done with sifting because he was bored but knew that wasn't anything else to do beside sleep that wasn't coming yet how sad was that that he couldn't even get through a dumb magazine---

Then lazy half lidded eyes flew open. His sore limbs forgotten when he snapped up -the opened rag clutched and crinkling in his grip- and shifted to the side of the bed, thrusting the splayed pages under the lamp's strongest reach. His eyes narrowed at the glossy images.

No. Fucking. Wa--

Arm rearing back, the lamp fell over with a crash -the bulb cracking, a white pop and glass shattering- as he whipped the offending magazine against the opposite wall. He was disappointed when all he heard was a smack of papers and not the violent clatter his anger needed. Sitting in the dark, skin flushed, the broken bulb's filament sizzling under his scant breathing and his heart hammering in his ears, he furiously rubbed his eyes just to wipe out the images seared into his brain.

"How could she?" he wanted to growl but sounded more like a pathetic whimper.

Standing and smiling side stage while He performed. He didn't even know that green-eyed bastard was in a band -ashamed that he had toe tapped to one of His songs when someone had their music playing loudly next door- what happened to being a teacher?!

No, wait, the dick had a rotten habit of fucking his students---
One- just one...

He could vomit right now. The photo collage of music tours at the end of summer just wouldn't leave him. He saw Her, still beautiful, gazing at Him like the prick hung the fucking moon. She really had married him, the glinting piece of metal on the hand wrapped around a microphone said as much. Oh he could cry more than vomit. If he lingered more on Her being there with someone who looked glaringly like himself, he could readily do both.

Just when his thoughts couldn't spiral down to any more dismal depths, something terrible occurred to him.

What about his kid?