Dion
AlteredTundra
Place: Jamie's Apartment -> Ashley's Apartment
Interacting With: Jamie
It was about two in the morning when Jamie left Ashley to shower down. As always, he locked the door behind him. The clicking of the mechanisms, the casualness of the action-- it was all fire in Ashley's sex-addled head, burning away the hours of pleasure and leaving behind only the heady scent of sweat and the knowledge that they were all alone once again.
This is how the game always ended, and in fifteen minutes it would start up again. This was routine. Natural.
Don't take it personally, kid.
Ash found themself staring silently up at the glossy white ceilings, full of thoughts and, at the same time, truly empty. The running shower one room over is enough white noise to not drive them completely mad from the thick, uncomfortable nothingness that was Jamie's bedroom. Slowly, Ashley shifted onto their side and stared down at their hand, eyes focusing in on the taunt purple string that curled around their middle finger. Following it with their eyes, Ash watched it lay a complicated pattern over the hard-wood floors, vanish under strewn clothes and papers, and finally completely disappear beneath the white door that led to the master bathroom. Each time Jamie moved inside of that room the thread tugged, rippled. They could feel him whisper-singing songs from the last show he had directed. It was annoying. It was attractive.
Ashley wished they cared less.
Their eyes wander upward again, focusing in on an open binder that seemed to have a new, marked up script in it. Ash sat up slightly and squinted through the dark to catch a few character names, and when some of the dialogue looked familiar they flipped to the first page. A Chorus Line stood out in bright red letters against a coffee-stained printer sheet. Butterflies formed in their stomach, small, fickle things that beat against their ribcage, and they couldn’t help but smile. A Chorus Line was Ash’s favorite show growing up. Nonna often complained about seeing Broadway shows, but when it came to A Chorus Line she would always take the lines over whatever the film adaptation offer. Both of them, enraptured by the show’s rawness, saw the revival at least five times before it went on tour. It was absolutely beautiful, and absolutely everything Ashley wanted to be.
They were tracing over Sheila’s lines with a pointed finger when Jamie emerged from the bathroom. His smile was about as sharp as his cheekbones, which were to say— too sharp. Ash was always afraid of cutting themself on either.
“What are you looking at, kid?” He asked, sauntering over like a panther or a lion.
“Nothing really.” Ash said, pushing the binder to the edge of the nightstand. In the same, smooth second, Jamie snatched it from the corner and leafed through the inked pages with trained confidence.
“You were talking about this show before.” He said. The string around Ash’s finger tightened, pulsed. They felt seen in all the worst and best ways– a cocktail of unsettling emotions formed in the pit of their stomach.
“Was I?”
“You was.” He laughed, “You said you wanted to be Sheila a month ago.”
“I… Didn’t think you’d remember, honestly.” Ashley said, voice just barely holding back the edge of their usual scathing sarcasm. Jamie wasn't really the type to remember valuable things, especially when they weren’t directly aiding him.
“Well, I did, kid, and I want you to audition.”
“You want me to audition?”
“Yes. It’ll be great– you’re already assured a spot on account of—“
“I don't want a role because I sleep with you, Jamie.” Ash said, the words catching uncomfortably in their throat. Jamie’s eyebrows furrowed, formed dark mountains, and then he laughed like Ash had uttered a gut-wrenching joke.
“I’m casting you because you’re talented, Ash. Remember–“ He lifted his hand, tugging hard at the purple string connecting their middle fingers. “No strings attached, right? Audition, Ash. We need you in this show.”
“If-if other people found out–” Ash was silenced with a finger thrust against their lips, and Jamie leaned in with all the subtle danger of praying mantis readying to strike. He smiled, and Ash shook with anticipation.
“No. Strings. Attached. Audition.” It wasn’t a question this time. Ash leaned back and pouted, holding back a scowl and a sigh and a slap to the face. It was a small price to pay— giving up power in order to play your favorite role in your favorite show. It was small. It was still against their principles.
But who could find out?
It was a small price to pay for fame.
The nod was almost involuntary (almost), but it still felt like it knocked the wind right out of their chest. Jamie grinned and ran his shiny fingers through Ash’s tousled hair, tangling the pretty curls into nests. The bed dipped as he settled down next to them, and Jamie’s kisses were superheated and enough to chase away the storming anxiety in their gut.
“You’ll be a star.” Jamie said and pushed Ash down into the sheets for round two.
Somehow, Ashley made it to their own bed last night, and somehow, they managed to beat their alarm by five minutes. Mid-morning sunshine cut through their dirty window, burning holes into their eyelids until Ashley could barely stand it. Dust fluttered peacefully through the beams, coming to rest on their bohemian-style bedspread and their scuffed tile floor. The lacing and silks they had hung in front of the window weeks before had, once again, collected in a heap below the windowsill, leaving the room bare to the blistering light of the sun. They’d have to get to that some other time.
Ashley's apartment was the epitome of a "shoebox". The kitchen was only about six paces away from their bed, and the bathroom door was half-blocked by the single loveseat Ash had managed to shove in despite the lack of any real living room. The tiled floors were covered with countless cheap rugs and silks, but the ugly green poked through in spots much too complicated to cover. Their bed took up most of the space, and for good reason. It was big enough for guests and covered in enough pillows and blankets and stuffed animals to bed a small army.
Most of everything in the room were gifts, from family or friends or past lovers, but the few things that were fundamentally Ashley's had their own corner. Dance shoes, playbills, candles, crystals; they all sat on their corner dresser in a neat manner, starkly contrasting the cluttered messiness that was the rest of the room.
A voice in Ash's head whispered 'home' and it was more right than it probably meant to be. This was home; being alone and warm and comfortable with their thoughts and their actions. Being completely in control of their environment. Yes, this was home.
Sitting up was more of a struggle than it should have been. The ache in their lower back was still nothing compared to the ache of their head, though, so they fought through the overbearing pulsation and managed to stand and shuffle towards the bathroom.
Minutes of daily routine later, they returned to their bed and dreamed briefly of skipping work and just going straight to the dance studio. Alas, the bills on the nightstand blared like a ticking time bomb, threatening to blow Ashley’s entire plan out of the water. Money first, and then pleasure.
Pleasure.
Next to the pile of bills was a purple and lipstick stained ticket to some masquerade event that was going on in the city. Jamie had pressed it against their lips last night at the bar and had whispered: “We’ll be the hottest ones there. Wear something nice, something real nice.” They didn’t have a chance to say no. Jamie probably wouldn’t have paid attention to such a dismissal anyway.
Ash plucked up the ticket with pressurized grace and examined the flimsy thing. Something something SPECTRUM something SPRING FUCKING FLING… It would have been more interesting if it read like that. Ash slammed the ticket down and stood again, moving to settle in front of their DIYed vanity. Edison light bulbs lit up as they flicked the switch in the side, and they leaned in to closely examine their unpainted face.
Eyebags hung down to their cheekbones, dark purple, almost like bruises. Their lips were cracked and dry from the constantly running electric fan that hangs on their headboard, and bright red hickeys led a fantastical and wild trail down to their chest and further. They looked positively exhausted, and absolutely like some college-aged slut.
Ash covered most of their imperfections with concealer and foundation and layers of contour powder. Their eyes turned from sleepy and purple to lazy and red and glossy– and their eyelashes reached up to brush girlishly against their eyebrows. It was always a treat to dress up after a long night of pleasing pretentious director-types, so they did their hair in a neat updo and layered up on reds and oranges and yellows in an effort to better portray the spring mood outside their creaking and dust-coated apartment.
With each layer of makeup and fabric they added, the little, anxious parts of them began to be sealed away. Like armor, they were protected from the rawness of the outside world by the glittering items they spent most of their paycheck on, and that itself was performance in a way.
By the time they were fully clothed they were already twenty minutes late for their retail job, so with all the effort of a sloth they slinked down their grubby walk upstairs and started out into the garbage-filled streets of downtown Boston.
This is how the game always ended, and in fifteen minutes it would start up again. This was routine. Natural.
Don't take it personally, kid.
Ash found themself staring silently up at the glossy white ceilings, full of thoughts and, at the same time, truly empty. The running shower one room over is enough white noise to not drive them completely mad from the thick, uncomfortable nothingness that was Jamie's bedroom. Slowly, Ashley shifted onto their side and stared down at their hand, eyes focusing in on the taunt purple string that curled around their middle finger. Following it with their eyes, Ash watched it lay a complicated pattern over the hard-wood floors, vanish under strewn clothes and papers, and finally completely disappear beneath the white door that led to the master bathroom. Each time Jamie moved inside of that room the thread tugged, rippled. They could feel him whisper-singing songs from the last show he had directed. It was annoying. It was attractive.
Ashley wished they cared less.
Their eyes wander upward again, focusing in on an open binder that seemed to have a new, marked up script in it. Ash sat up slightly and squinted through the dark to catch a few character names, and when some of the dialogue looked familiar they flipped to the first page. A Chorus Line stood out in bright red letters against a coffee-stained printer sheet. Butterflies formed in their stomach, small, fickle things that beat against their ribcage, and they couldn’t help but smile. A Chorus Line was Ash’s favorite show growing up. Nonna often complained about seeing Broadway shows, but when it came to A Chorus Line she would always take the lines over whatever the film adaptation offer. Both of them, enraptured by the show’s rawness, saw the revival at least five times before it went on tour. It was absolutely beautiful, and absolutely everything Ashley wanted to be.
They were tracing over Sheila’s lines with a pointed finger when Jamie emerged from the bathroom. His smile was about as sharp as his cheekbones, which were to say— too sharp. Ash was always afraid of cutting themself on either.
“What are you looking at, kid?” He asked, sauntering over like a panther or a lion.
“Nothing really.” Ash said, pushing the binder to the edge of the nightstand. In the same, smooth second, Jamie snatched it from the corner and leafed through the inked pages with trained confidence.
“You were talking about this show before.” He said. The string around Ash’s finger tightened, pulsed. They felt seen in all the worst and best ways– a cocktail of unsettling emotions formed in the pit of their stomach.
“Was I?”
“You was.” He laughed, “You said you wanted to be Sheila a month ago.”
“I… Didn’t think you’d remember, honestly.” Ashley said, voice just barely holding back the edge of their usual scathing sarcasm. Jamie wasn't really the type to remember valuable things, especially when they weren’t directly aiding him.
“Well, I did, kid, and I want you to audition.”
“You want me to audition?”
“Yes. It’ll be great– you’re already assured a spot on account of—“
“I don't want a role because I sleep with you, Jamie.” Ash said, the words catching uncomfortably in their throat. Jamie’s eyebrows furrowed, formed dark mountains, and then he laughed like Ash had uttered a gut-wrenching joke.
“I’m casting you because you’re talented, Ash. Remember–“ He lifted his hand, tugging hard at the purple string connecting their middle fingers. “No strings attached, right? Audition, Ash. We need you in this show.”
“If-if other people found out–” Ash was silenced with a finger thrust against their lips, and Jamie leaned in with all the subtle danger of praying mantis readying to strike. He smiled, and Ash shook with anticipation.
“No. Strings. Attached. Audition.” It wasn’t a question this time. Ash leaned back and pouted, holding back a scowl and a sigh and a slap to the face. It was a small price to pay— giving up power in order to play your favorite role in your favorite show. It was small. It was still against their principles.
But who could find out?
It was a small price to pay for fame.
The nod was almost involuntary (almost), but it still felt like it knocked the wind right out of their chest. Jamie grinned and ran his shiny fingers through Ash’s tousled hair, tangling the pretty curls into nests. The bed dipped as he settled down next to them, and Jamie’s kisses were superheated and enough to chase away the storming anxiety in their gut.
“You’ll be a star.” Jamie said and pushed Ash down into the sheets for round two.
Somehow, Ashley made it to their own bed last night, and somehow, they managed to beat their alarm by five minutes. Mid-morning sunshine cut through their dirty window, burning holes into their eyelids until Ashley could barely stand it. Dust fluttered peacefully through the beams, coming to rest on their bohemian-style bedspread and their scuffed tile floor. The lacing and silks they had hung in front of the window weeks before had, once again, collected in a heap below the windowsill, leaving the room bare to the blistering light of the sun. They’d have to get to that some other time.
Ashley's apartment was the epitome of a "shoebox". The kitchen was only about six paces away from their bed, and the bathroom door was half-blocked by the single loveseat Ash had managed to shove in despite the lack of any real living room. The tiled floors were covered with countless cheap rugs and silks, but the ugly green poked through in spots much too complicated to cover. Their bed took up most of the space, and for good reason. It was big enough for guests and covered in enough pillows and blankets and stuffed animals to bed a small army.
Most of everything in the room were gifts, from family or friends or past lovers, but the few things that were fundamentally Ashley's had their own corner. Dance shoes, playbills, candles, crystals; they all sat on their corner dresser in a neat manner, starkly contrasting the cluttered messiness that was the rest of the room.
A voice in Ash's head whispered 'home' and it was more right than it probably meant to be. This was home; being alone and warm and comfortable with their thoughts and their actions. Being completely in control of their environment. Yes, this was home.
Sitting up was more of a struggle than it should have been. The ache in their lower back was still nothing compared to the ache of their head, though, so they fought through the overbearing pulsation and managed to stand and shuffle towards the bathroom.
Minutes of daily routine later, they returned to their bed and dreamed briefly of skipping work and just going straight to the dance studio. Alas, the bills on the nightstand blared like a ticking time bomb, threatening to blow Ashley’s entire plan out of the water. Money first, and then pleasure.
Pleasure.
Next to the pile of bills was a purple and lipstick stained ticket to some masquerade event that was going on in the city. Jamie had pressed it against their lips last night at the bar and had whispered: “We’ll be the hottest ones there. Wear something nice, something real nice.” They didn’t have a chance to say no. Jamie probably wouldn’t have paid attention to such a dismissal anyway.
Ash plucked up the ticket with pressurized grace and examined the flimsy thing. Something something SPECTRUM something SPRING FUCKING FLING… It would have been more interesting if it read like that. Ash slammed the ticket down and stood again, moving to settle in front of their DIYed vanity. Edison light bulbs lit up as they flicked the switch in the side, and they leaned in to closely examine their unpainted face.
Eyebags hung down to their cheekbones, dark purple, almost like bruises. Their lips were cracked and dry from the constantly running electric fan that hangs on their headboard, and bright red hickeys led a fantastical and wild trail down to their chest and further. They looked positively exhausted, and absolutely like some college-aged slut.
Ash covered most of their imperfections with concealer and foundation and layers of contour powder. Their eyes turned from sleepy and purple to lazy and red and glossy– and their eyelashes reached up to brush girlishly against their eyebrows. It was always a treat to dress up after a long night of pleasing pretentious director-types, so they did their hair in a neat updo and layered up on reds and oranges and yellows in an effort to better portray the spring mood outside their creaking and dust-coated apartment.
With each layer of makeup and fabric they added, the little, anxious parts of them began to be sealed away. Like armor, they were protected from the rawness of the outside world by the glittering items they spent most of their paycheck on, and that itself was performance in a way.
By the time they were fully clothed they were already twenty minutes late for their retail job, so with all the effort of a sloth they slinked down their grubby walk upstairs and started out into the garbage-filled streets of downtown Boston.
