(runs and hides. I'm so sorry. It was literally the first thing I thought and. Anyway.)
Okay, I really liked this one, actually.
“...and it is my great joy, nay, my honor, to introduce you to…”
It’s fake. It’s all fake. It’s been fake for longer than he really remembers. He couldn’t put a finger on when, exactly, he became this thing. This walking, talking poser who reads shit off a screen written to sound like him, but isn’t him.
“...someone who has changed my life. I know there has been a lot of talk lately, and the rumors are true.”
One nosey pap, getting a picture taken with Chrissy Cunningham outside his San Francisco apartment, saying goodbye. He was supposed to be a metal star. Famous, sure, but despite it all, not because of it. A person everyone couldn’t help but know, even if they secretly thought he was the spawn of Satan. He liked it that way.
Sure, there was compromise. The label owned him. They chose his outfits, his photoshoots, who he got seen hanging out with, but it was fine. It was still his image, the guy who spat in the face of conformity.
And now, his label is all about “good PR,” which apparently means “dating” a pop star who is supposed to be his one and only friend outside of the band in this industry. He hates how fast she jumped on this. He hates what they’re making him say. He hates the words on this god damn teleprompter.
“...so in commemoration of my new relationship with the one and only, the uh, one and only…” Oh fuck, I can not do this.
There are people staring at him, so many. The murmuring starts the instant he goes off script, chaos descending before he’s even said anything real.
Well, if it's fake they want, then fine. Fake they can have.
He straightens his spine, the devil may care smile he forgot how to wear naturally returns to him. The teleprompter is paused, and why not make good use of it? He stands, spreading his arms wide.Â
“In commemoration of my new relationship with the one and only Steve H, I will henceforth be dropping my affiliation with Vile Records and running away with the love of my life.” He grabs the guy behind the teleprompter, the only one in the whole studio that didn’t look like he was losing his mind, and yanks.
Eddie’d only gotten a glimpse of his name tag, Steve H, between glances at the screen, but up close, he’s a real looker. Angelic, even. Perfect hazel eyes wide with shock. Way to go, Eddie. He gets so caught up in examining this absolute catch he just plucked from the depths that he almost forgets what comes next.
He turns back toward the camera, linking his hands with Steve’s to keep him from running, though he doesn’t seem to be trying to move away. Must be the shock.
“So, with deepest sympathies, fuck off!” He flips the camera the bird, and then he runs like hell.
“What the fuck?!” Steve shouts, but doesn’t let go of his hand.
Several PAs, assistants, and managers try to block them on the way out, but he’s an unstoppable force for the first time in years. He’s out. He’s blown up his career, probably got himself blacklisted, and he’s never felt better.
They manage to make it around the block, ducking into an ally. Eddie needs to catch his breath, his feats of athleticism relegated to the stage, not running. Steve, on the other hand, seems fine. Eddie is starkly aware of how sweaty his palm is.
“Hey, what the fuck, man?” Steve asks. He really is handsome, with a nice, smooth voice.
Eddie should apologize. He should give the guy ten grand and hail him a cab and wish him all the best. Instead, he opens his big mouth, and in retrospect, it’s probably the best decision he ever makes.
“You want to run away with me?”
2087
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