Unfinished...
I actually hope to finish this one day. But for now, I wanted to leave what little I did before I'm off for ten days without access to a computer. Failish, I know.
--
Zac clings to him.
He smells like hot lights and airplane cabin, wrapped loosely around Sterling and holding him like so much air. Sterling is a quiet happiness, a puzzle of muted colors and soft swishing noises that Zac tries to clasp to his chest, but comes up with nothing but the sound of shapes that don't fit. A sort of awkward creaking of stiff limbs and the far off click-clack of Sterling thinking too hard. Like a clock, or a slowly moving train, travelling from one town of thought to another and in one great big circle.
“Asshole,” Sterling says, tasting the faint sourness of substitution like rust between his teeth. There are many reasons he used to hate Zac Efron, and he's beginning to remember them all.
“I know. I'm sorry,” Zac says.
“You're not.”
“I'm not.”
They don't work. Not like this and not so soon. They're a silent collision, all mismatched and mashed together, splayed across Sterling's bed. Or maybe they're no collision at all. Just an unanswered question, stale in its repetition. He doesn't kick Zac out, because if anything, they're friends.
-
Being around Zac is like living under a spotlight.
Dinners are an adventure. Or at least, they start out that way. These days, Zac can't take a piss without five or six cameras being shoved into his face, which he's admittedly gotten rather used to. People seem to think he's a phenomena, after all. A bright, young talent who even when he's do nothing at all, it's something to be remembered. Recorded and posted to an internet that never forgets. And Zac goes along with it, because at the end of the day, he's got no other prospects and lots of bills to pay.
Sterling on the other hand, has been able to coast below the radar without trouble. Aside from the very public events that come with his job, and the occasional pushy paparazzo, he hasn't really had to worry about someone sticking a camera up his nose the second he steps out his door. He feels like a douche, trying in vain to sneak out the back of restaurants and clubs, Zac's finger hooked in his beltloop, so as not to be separated. Two ships crossing through a sea of flashes, breaking the waves of too personal questions.
“What did you say,” Sterling asks one night when he's staring down at his half-eaten steak and is feeling particularly curious. He promised himself he wouldn't do this. It's none of his business, really.
“I dunno.” Zac shrugs and stabs vigorously at Sterling's mashed potatos. “We talked for like, two hours.”
“Yeah. But what did you say?”
“Apparently, not enough.”
-
--
Zac clings to him.
He smells like hot lights and airplane cabin, wrapped loosely around Sterling and holding him like so much air. Sterling is a quiet happiness, a puzzle of muted colors and soft swishing noises that Zac tries to clasp to his chest, but comes up with nothing but the sound of shapes that don't fit. A sort of awkward creaking of stiff limbs and the far off click-clack of Sterling thinking too hard. Like a clock, or a slowly moving train, travelling from one town of thought to another and in one great big circle.
“Asshole,” Sterling says, tasting the faint sourness of substitution like rust between his teeth. There are many reasons he used to hate Zac Efron, and he's beginning to remember them all.
“I know. I'm sorry,” Zac says.
“You're not.”
“I'm not.”
They don't work. Not like this and not so soon. They're a silent collision, all mismatched and mashed together, splayed across Sterling's bed. Or maybe they're no collision at all. Just an unanswered question, stale in its repetition. He doesn't kick Zac out, because if anything, they're friends.
-
Being around Zac is like living under a spotlight.
Dinners are an adventure. Or at least, they start out that way. These days, Zac can't take a piss without five or six cameras being shoved into his face, which he's admittedly gotten rather used to. People seem to think he's a phenomena, after all. A bright, young talent who even when he's do nothing at all, it's something to be remembered. Recorded and posted to an internet that never forgets. And Zac goes along with it, because at the end of the day, he's got no other prospects and lots of bills to pay.
Sterling on the other hand, has been able to coast below the radar without trouble. Aside from the very public events that come with his job, and the occasional pushy paparazzo, he hasn't really had to worry about someone sticking a camera up his nose the second he steps out his door. He feels like a douche, trying in vain to sneak out the back of restaurants and clubs, Zac's finger hooked in his beltloop, so as not to be separated. Two ships crossing through a sea of flashes, breaking the waves of too personal questions.
“What did you say,” Sterling asks one night when he's staring down at his half-eaten steak and is feeling particularly curious. He promised himself he wouldn't do this. It's none of his business, really.
“I dunno.” Zac shrugs and stabs vigorously at Sterling's mashed potatos. “We talked for like, two hours.”
“Yeah. But what did you say?”
“Apparently, not enough.”
-