IT’S DIFFICULT to bite back the scathing, seething retorts that rise in the back of his throat like acrid bile – who is he, of all people, to talk to Ziggy Stardust in such a tone ? He isn’t some replaceable roadie – he, as far as he is concerned, is the shining star of this generation’s music scene, and the saving grace of Jareth’s otherwise miserable tour. ❝ Oh, I’d like some clarification, ❞ he hisses – he and Jareth are about the same height, but his platforms give him the advantage of a few, hopefully intimidating inches.
❝ WHO GAVE you the authority to make decisions like that ? As far as I know, you’re the unsightly, festering sore that’s been ruining my tour, ❞ he snaps, his lip curling in revulsion. ❝ Your aesthetic does not meld well with mine and your songs are outdated, to put it generously. I know for a fact that everyone – myself included ! – is absolutely sick of hearing your stupid Labyrinth songs. I am not your opening act, you prick. If I leave, your entire audience will leave with me, ❞ he insists. He’s never been so insulted since about a week ago when he and Jareth got in that other argument.
TRUTHFULLY, NEITHER of them are quite correct: the whole point of having a double headliner tour is for them to share the spotlight, but the stage is hardly big enough for their egos. The momentary burst of rage soothes his simmering fury and he collects enough composure to take a deep, shuddering inhale, casting his gaze downwards to inspect his nails: if he looks at Jareth for a second longer, he might lose it again. ❝ I didn’t take your garba – your suit, ❞ he explains, his voice as tight as a drawn bow, ❝ I found it. I told you I found it. You – or maybe, I don’t know, someone else – had it packed in with my stuff. At least I returned it ! ❞ he insists, jabbing an accusatory, well-manicured finger into Jareth’s chest. ❝ I could have easily thrown it out ! ❞
LIFE IS coming apart at the seams – things just aren’t working out, and it spells certain disaster unless one of them musters the maturity to think of a logical solution: it will certainly not be Ziggy. ❝ I loathe you, ❞ he decides rather matter-of-factly, haughty and condescending until his dying breath.
“Oh, you know this for a fact, do you?” His tone is patronizing, almost pitying, as if he can scarcely believe how misinformed Ziggy is about his music and who, exactly, has the bigger audience. Jareth hates the fact that Ziggy is wearing these enormous stacked platform boots, forcing him to tilt his head up a bit in order to meet his gaze, when he wants so badly to look down his nose at him. He simply has to regain the upper hand.
“I don’t need to listen to this. You’re a child.” Stating simply, clenching his jaw a bit to suppress the wrath he wants to spit at the other, maintaining his haughty, if not quite composed, tone. “Your fans are children, and when they lose interest in you, as children always inevitably do, no one will remember you were ever on this tour with me.” Which hadn’t happened to Jareth and his music (or so he was claiming)—how dare Ziggy call him outdated, when the other performer could only hope to last as long in the business as he had.
A look down at the unwelcome finger that jabs into his chest. That, and this barrage of insults to his dignity, almost cause him to snap. “Another remarkable coincidence. The feeling is mutual.” Rage still simmers behind his eyes, but at the same time, he wants to remain cool and in control. That desire, and the need to completely destroy this young upstart, are at war with one another in his head—
And he pauses. Clenching and unclenching his fist, leaving his arms at his sides. “Let’s make a deal.” He’s trying to be the one who finds a logical solution to this problem, but it’s a struggle. “Surely you can at least do that. Some way to make this tour…palatable.” Pronouncing this last word as if the very idea, ironically, leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
jbbartram-illu
theartofmadeline
turnnoffyourmind
gummygunk
