Cast your hooks I hope youll catch a glimpse of blinding bliss
Here's my entry for greatestfits.
Secrets of My Soul
Rated R
HD/CKR
Third time's a charm. And by charm I mean finished. This never would have been written if it hadn't been for the encouragement, hand-holding and fantabulous betatude from strangecobwebs and brooklinegirl.
~*~
You seek secrets of my soul
My misery I hope you'll miss.
Cast your hooks, I hope you'll catch
A glimpse of blinding bliss
Trent handed out the envelopes at the start of rehearsal. "I finally got around to developing a whole pile of film. I pulled out some for each of you."
Hugh resisted the urge to rip his open and see if there were pictures from the last tour. Instead, he tossed his with his stuff and went to his mike. "Okay, let's get going."
~*~
When Hugh got home, he dropped his bag, put on music loud enough to hear in the bathroom, slammed down a beer, and went to shower. He made the water as hot as he could stand and tried to let it beat the noise out of his head. He gave up after a minute and washed quickly. When he got to his dick, he couldn't help giving it a little more attention than it needed to get clean, but fuck, his hand was the only action it was seeing lately.
He leaned against the wall, braced his legs, and stroked harder. A few thrusts into his slick hand and he was fully hard. He tipped his head against the tile and closed his eyes. And saw a white envelope creased in the shape of a pile of photographs. He shook his head and forced himself to think about a dark-haired girl with high, round tits and lips made for sucking dick. Mmm. Much better. Until he looked down at her head bobbing at his crotch and saw spiky blond hair and felt the stubble of a cheek against his thigh. His eyes few open and he stared at his shampoo, thinking of no one. He finished himself off as quick as he could, coming joylessly on the wall. Fuck that fucking fucker.
Afterwards, he pulled on a pair of boxers and t-shirt before wandering into the kitchen to get another beer. Leaning on the fridge door, he chugged half of it down, grabbed a six-pack and a bag of chips, and carried everything to the coffee table. He gulped down the rest of his beer, got the envelope out of his bag, and tossed that on the table, too. He stared at if for a moment, blank, white, and crumpled a bit from being in his bag.
It wasn't going to bite. Maybe there weren't even any pictures in there of -- well, anything to piss him off. Christ, he couldn't even think the guy's name. What a pussy. Just fucking do it, already.
He started to sit, but popped back up before his ass hit the couch to retrieve his last, nearly-full bottle of Jack, and his stash. He killed another beer while he rolled and smoked a joint. Finally, finally the edge was gone. He picked up the envelope.
There was a note on top.
There are doubles of some I thought Mr. Hollywood might like. T
The first picture was of Hugh on the bus, head bent over a notebook as he scribbled in it. There was a fuzzy blond figure in the background. Fuck. He set down the pictures, unscrewed the whiskey lid, and drank straight from the bottle, savoring the sweet burn down his throat.
It was only dumbass pictures. Hugh didn't care about him anyway. He'd gotten through the past year without him and he didn't need him. His life was just fine without him. Better than fine. Golden.
He lit a cigarette, opened a fresh beer, and started flipping through the pile.
~*~
He woke up on the couch the next morning with a pain in his ass from passing out on top of the mostly empty bottle of Jack. His head was fucking pounding and the inside of his mouth felt like he'd eaten ass-flavored cotton. There was a photo face down on his chest. He picked it up, but it felt too heavy, so he let his arm drop over the edge of sofa. But he didn't let go of the picture.
It took him ten minutes to sit up and another ten after that to open his eyes. He glanced at the picture, set it beside him, and dug through the empties and photos strewn across the table until he found his butts and a lighter. He lit one, inhaled deeply, and looked at the mess in front of him. Then he picked up the picture next to him and forced himself to look.
The two of them on the bus couch, sitting close, twisted to face each other, foreheads nearly touching, both of them laughing. Hugh remembered that night. They'd had a kickass show, and he'd had let Hugh blow him in the bathroom after, then jerked Hugh off fast and dirty. After, they'd gotten on the bus and shot the shit until they arrived at the next city some time after dawn.
Fucking fuckity fuck, his life sucked. Here he was, making a living writing and singing music he loved with guys he loved. Hell, he'd starred in a feature film. He should be happy. Instead, he got fucked up and passed out every night. Alone. And it didn't help him forget.
Yeah, admit it, you big fucking loser pussy. Lie to everyone else that you're fine. Say, yeah, you just talked to him last week. He's good. Working hard. Says hey to you guys. But fuckin' A, you know you miss him and he won't talk to you because of how fucked up you are. You stayed sober for the entire movie shoot for the sake of the movie, but you can't get sober to end this? Well, fuck that.
Hugh straightened up the pictures, stacking them neatly and setting aside the duplicates. He set the bus picture on top. He gathered up the empties and the bottle of Jack and dumped them all in the garbage. He started back to the living room, then retrieved the Jack from the trash and dumped the contents down the drain. He put up a pot of coffee, made one more trip to the garbage with the dirty ashtray, and took his stash into the bathroom.
He emptied it into the toilet, pissed on it for good measure, and flushed. He thought about puking; instead he drank about a gallon of water from the bathroom tap, brushed his teeth, and stripped.
After a shower that lasted as long as the hot water did, he got out, wrapped a towel around his waist, wiped the steam off the mirror, and shaved. He didn't look too closely at his face while he did it, just focused on one patch of skin at a time.
He put on a pair of mostly clean jeans and a shirt that didn’t reek, got his notebook and pen from his bag, and set them next to the pictures on the table. He fixed a giant mug of coffee and sat on the couch to drink it, getting halfway through it before he picked up the notebook and pen. He took a deep breath and another look at the top picture.
Dear Callum,
Trent gave me these photos. He thought you might like them. I thought you might, too.
HD
He ripped the page out of his notebook and wrapped it around the pictures.
He stared at nothing for a minute, chasing the music in his head. Then he started to write.
Circling and spinning around my mind…
Secrets of My Soul
Rated R
HD/CKR
Third time's a charm. And by charm I mean finished. This never would have been written if it hadn't been for the encouragement, hand-holding and fantabulous betatude from strangecobwebs and brooklinegirl.
~*~
You seek secrets of my soul
My misery I hope you'll miss.
Cast your hooks, I hope you'll catch
A glimpse of blinding bliss
Trent handed out the envelopes at the start of rehearsal. "I finally got around to developing a whole pile of film. I pulled out some for each of you."
Hugh resisted the urge to rip his open and see if there were pictures from the last tour. Instead, he tossed his with his stuff and went to his mike. "Okay, let's get going."
~*~
When Hugh got home, he dropped his bag, put on music loud enough to hear in the bathroom, slammed down a beer, and went to shower. He made the water as hot as he could stand and tried to let it beat the noise out of his head. He gave up after a minute and washed quickly. When he got to his dick, he couldn't help giving it a little more attention than it needed to get clean, but fuck, his hand was the only action it was seeing lately.
He leaned against the wall, braced his legs, and stroked harder. A few thrusts into his slick hand and he was fully hard. He tipped his head against the tile and closed his eyes. And saw a white envelope creased in the shape of a pile of photographs. He shook his head and forced himself to think about a dark-haired girl with high, round tits and lips made for sucking dick. Mmm. Much better. Until he looked down at her head bobbing at his crotch and saw spiky blond hair and felt the stubble of a cheek against his thigh. His eyes few open and he stared at his shampoo, thinking of no one. He finished himself off as quick as he could, coming joylessly on the wall. Fuck that fucking fucker.
Afterwards, he pulled on a pair of boxers and t-shirt before wandering into the kitchen to get another beer. Leaning on the fridge door, he chugged half of it down, grabbed a six-pack and a bag of chips, and carried everything to the coffee table. He gulped down the rest of his beer, got the envelope out of his bag, and tossed that on the table, too. He stared at if for a moment, blank, white, and crumpled a bit from being in his bag.
It wasn't going to bite. Maybe there weren't even any pictures in there of -- well, anything to piss him off. Christ, he couldn't even think the guy's name. What a pussy. Just fucking do it, already.
He started to sit, but popped back up before his ass hit the couch to retrieve his last, nearly-full bottle of Jack, and his stash. He killed another beer while he rolled and smoked a joint. Finally, finally the edge was gone. He picked up the envelope.
There was a note on top.
There are doubles of some I thought Mr. Hollywood might like. T
The first picture was of Hugh on the bus, head bent over a notebook as he scribbled in it. There was a fuzzy blond figure in the background. Fuck. He set down the pictures, unscrewed the whiskey lid, and drank straight from the bottle, savoring the sweet burn down his throat.
It was only dumbass pictures. Hugh didn't care about him anyway. He'd gotten through the past year without him and he didn't need him. His life was just fine without him. Better than fine. Golden.
He lit a cigarette, opened a fresh beer, and started flipping through the pile.
~*~
He woke up on the couch the next morning with a pain in his ass from passing out on top of the mostly empty bottle of Jack. His head was fucking pounding and the inside of his mouth felt like he'd eaten ass-flavored cotton. There was a photo face down on his chest. He picked it up, but it felt too heavy, so he let his arm drop over the edge of sofa. But he didn't let go of the picture.
It took him ten minutes to sit up and another ten after that to open his eyes. He glanced at the picture, set it beside him, and dug through the empties and photos strewn across the table until he found his butts and a lighter. He lit one, inhaled deeply, and looked at the mess in front of him. Then he picked up the picture next to him and forced himself to look.
The two of them on the bus couch, sitting close, twisted to face each other, foreheads nearly touching, both of them laughing. Hugh remembered that night. They'd had a kickass show, and he'd had let Hugh blow him in the bathroom after, then jerked Hugh off fast and dirty. After, they'd gotten on the bus and shot the shit until they arrived at the next city some time after dawn.
Fucking fuckity fuck, his life sucked. Here he was, making a living writing and singing music he loved with guys he loved. Hell, he'd starred in a feature film. He should be happy. Instead, he got fucked up and passed out every night. Alone. And it didn't help him forget.
Yeah, admit it, you big fucking loser pussy. Lie to everyone else that you're fine. Say, yeah, you just talked to him last week. He's good. Working hard. Says hey to you guys. But fuckin' A, you know you miss him and he won't talk to you because of how fucked up you are. You stayed sober for the entire movie shoot for the sake of the movie, but you can't get sober to end this? Well, fuck that.
Hugh straightened up the pictures, stacking them neatly and setting aside the duplicates. He set the bus picture on top. He gathered up the empties and the bottle of Jack and dumped them all in the garbage. He started back to the living room, then retrieved the Jack from the trash and dumped the contents down the drain. He put up a pot of coffee, made one more trip to the garbage with the dirty ashtray, and took his stash into the bathroom.
He emptied it into the toilet, pissed on it for good measure, and flushed. He thought about puking; instead he drank about a gallon of water from the bathroom tap, brushed his teeth, and stripped.
After a shower that lasted as long as the hot water did, he got out, wrapped a towel around his waist, wiped the steam off the mirror, and shaved. He didn't look too closely at his face while he did it, just focused on one patch of skin at a time.
He put on a pair of mostly clean jeans and a shirt that didn’t reek, got his notebook and pen from his bag, and set them next to the pictures on the table. He fixed a giant mug of coffee and sat on the couch to drink it, getting halfway through it before he picked up the notebook and pen. He took a deep breath and another look at the top picture.
Dear Callum,
Trent gave me these photos. He thought you might like them. I thought you might, too.
HD
He ripped the page out of his notebook and wrapped it around the pictures.
He stared at nothing for a minute, chasing the music in his head. Then he started to write.
Circling and spinning around my mind…