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Wrapt	By : beautifulliar Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Nine Inch Nails Views: 1948 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Nine Inch Nails. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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- 2
“Wrapt” - Part One
by Beautiful Liar

Jeordie tilted his head and looked lazily at his left eye, reflected back at him in a mirror that spanned the distance of four restroom sinks. His left eye seemed unblinking.

It had to be a trick. He pressed his thumb against the reflection of his left eye and twisted it, smearing it with a fingerprint. The eye looked at the smear for a second, then back up at him.

Yeah, fuck you too, unblinking eye.

He bent and cranked both handles of the faucet in front of him. Water rushed. As he turned his hands under it, water spattering and splashing his wrists, the insides of his forearms, two things turned in his mind. Thing one: that last chick at the meet-and-greet, with the Manson CD and the breath like chewing gum? Daisy Berkowitz with boobs.

Thing two: what the fuck was up with Trent lately?

Take the Daisy Berkowitz chick—she’d shoved that Manson CD at his chest and he’d taken it, held it up and laughed, and his eyes just happened to glance around the crowd, for just a second—

—and caught Trent watching him. Maybe it was a fluke; maybe they’d looked up at the same time, both of them caught in a throng of fans and fan club members in a room where three of the walls were painted concrete block and the third was like the partition they’d had in one of the schools he went to as a kid, the one that closed one half of the gymnasium off from the other so the boys could play floor hockey while the girls did gymnastics, or whatever it was they did.

Maybe Trent had heard him laugh and glanced up to see at what.

Maybe it was just a trick, like his unblinking left eye in the mirror. Maybe it only felt like he’d caught Trent staring at him, his face inscrutable. Again.

He cranked off the faucet. Half a beat of silence gave way to a swoosh that came from the other end of the restroom. The skin behind his ears tightened. A dull thud came on the heels of the swoosh, both sounds audible over the shshshs of a toilet running in one of the stalls behind him.

He slid his eyes over in time to catch the blur of the restroom door swinging shut and to put a name to the person who, with his hand pressed on the back of the door, had shoved it closed. “’Sup?” he said to Trent and side-stepped past the sinks to wave his hand in front of the motion sensor on the paper towel dispenser.

Instead of a return greeting from Trent, he got a bumping kind of scraping sound. Chair being dragged on its back legs across a bumpy tile floor? The machine in front of him whirred, spitting out less paper than would adequately dry his hands. He ripped it off and looked over at Trent, who still had said not a word.

Chair, on a bumpy tile floor. Ten points! Trent was angling a scarred and paint-splattered chair—which must have been the dull thud that had come after the swoosh—up under the restroom’s door handle.

Trent kicked the chair’s crossbar with the heel of his sneaker.

First thought: but Trent doesn’t do that shit anymore. Drugs, he was thinking—why else would you make sure no one could walk in on you? There’s no paranoiac like a junkie paranoiac.

But. Trent doesn’t do that shit anymore.

He watched Trent give the door handle a yank, watched his mouth tighten, the corners turning down.

Trent loosened the chair, then repositioned it.

His second thought came as he tore a second serving of paper towel from the dispenser, and this one he vocalized: “What’s up? Killer groupies after your ass?” He puffed his chest out and deepened his voice. “The attack. Of the killer. Grouuuupies.” He grinned.

Without looking over, Trent flashed a hand, telling him just a minute, then kicked at the chair’s legs again, tested the door handle. Satisfied yet?

Jeordie’s smile was still on his face because whatever Trent was up to, whatever reason he had for barricading himself—the both of them—in a public restroom had to be good.

Trent straightened, his stance weird, like his muscles were too big for his arms to hang like a normal person’s. This was his normal stance these days.

“So what’s up with the chair?” Jeordie nodded at it.

Trent, walking toward the stalls, held up a hand. Three or four fingers waved, beckoning, but where was there to go—“Come on,” Trent said without looking back—except into a stall?

This had to be really fucking good if one locked door wasn’t enough. He tossed a damp ball of paper toward the garbage can and followed.

Trent popped a stall door open with the heel of his hand. There was a whack as the edge of it slapped the wall behind it. The door bounced back; Trent’s outstretched arm stopped it short. Rather than going in first, he stopped half in the doorway, his arm holding the door open. He waved three fingers again and tilted his head toward the inside of the stall.

Jeordie just kept on grinning as he headed inside. “Okay, so what kind of top secret mission is—”

Trent caught him by the chest with his free hand and shoved him back against the partition that separated their stall from the next.

His eyebrows went up. The metal wall at his back gave, just a little, and rattled the other stalls, but held. An inventory of everything he’d done in the past few days that maybe could have pissed Trent off carouselled through his head.

Trent kept his hand against his chest as he side-stepped into the stall and closed the door. Then he dropped his hand, and dropped his shoulders back against the opposite partition. He was looking at Jeordie’s feet, or at the grout—gray like fish guts—between the floor tiles.

The running toilet next door seemed loud. It seemed, in fact, like it was right up in Jeordie’s ears. “What’s going on?” His voice dropped into okay, let’s be serious mode. He couldn’t think of anything he’d done that would have gotten back to Trent and torqued his nut, not a thing. But it would explain why he was always catching Trent looking at him with that expression on his face, the one that made him think of concrete walls.

The stall door creaked open a few inches. Trent slapped it closed. He held his hand there, against the door.

Moving slowly, filling up the time between now and when Trent finally let go of whatever was on his chest, Jeordie thumbed the lock in place. So they wouldn’t have the door easing open every thirty seconds, interrupting.

Without looking up, Trent pushed his other hand over the stubble that used to be hair. And then he did look up, or brought his head up at least. His eyes were closed. The back of his head made a dull sound when it hit the wall behind him. “I’m so fucking horny.” His voice sounded like it was being forced through a tight leather glove. “I could put my fist through a fucking wall.”

Jeordie let out a huff that was something like a laugh. “Yeah, I hear ya. And whenever you actually want some sweet little groupie to con her way backstage, where the fuck are they?”

The sound of his voice didn’t so much echo as hang there, between them.

Trent kept holding the stall door closed, head back, eyes open now, blinking at the ceiling.

Jeordie glanced up—nothing spectacular up there. “So, when’s the girlfriend meet up with the tour?”

“Fuck, uh…three…four days.” Spoken to the cracks in the ceiling. Just above Trent’s right shoulder, someone had scrawled PUSSY in black marker on the dented gray wall.

“Hey, so fly her in early.”

“Don’t fucking want to.” Trent looked down finally—looked at his fingers as they pushed at the stall door, like he didn’t realize it was going to stay closed on its own. Then he let go.

Jeordie felt like he was forcing his smile to stick around, and why not add a profound remark to this weird moment in the john while he was at it? “Ah, that age-old old-pussy/new-pussy problem, right?”

Trent’s head was tilted just a little to one side. His eyes, looking up into Jeordie’s finally, seemed sharply ochre, intense in the dimness and grayness of the stall. He pointed his index finger at Jeordie’s chest like a gun. “I blame you for this.” The finger poked him.

Jeordie laughed. “Me? What the fuck did I do?”

The gun disappeared, turning into a flat palm that pressed Jeordie back against the stall wall again.

He felt his eyebrows knit together—because he was thinking things, starting to think things, and he had to be thinking down the wrong track because, come on, the looks he’d been getting from Trent the past, what, month or two? They hadn’t exactly been flirtatious. Concrete walls. He pushed his shoulders against the partition at his back, but with nowhere to go his options were limited to averting his face, just a little, just so he wasn’t looking down at Trent’s mouth, at the dent in the Cupid’s bow of his upper lip. Thinking things, thinking things—things that were probably wrong. At least he hoped so.

Trent slid his hand up Jeordie’s chest and around the back of his neck.

He stopped noticing the shshshs of the running toilet.

Trent’s fingers pressed against the notch at the back of his neck, above his shirt collar, that notch between the bones of his spine.

As Jeordie’s eyes flickered over the locked door, a single syllable laugh, weak around the edges, came out of his open mouth; he followed it with, “Whatever happened to those killer groupies, huh?” He grasped the top of the stall door, squeezing the metal between thumb and fingers. The bolt rattled in its hole but held. He thought he felt a breath skate along his jaw. His heart kicked it up for a couple of beats. A quick slide of his eyes, however, told him that Trent’s face wasn’t near enough to breathe on him. It only seemed close in here.

Trent’s head dropped forward a little, enough for Jeordie to be looking at the crown of it out of the corner of his eye, Trent’s hair all jock short, all “Yeah, but I just run a towel over it when I get out of the shower and I’m done” short, Trent not avoiding that uniquely human trait of seeing whatever he has/does/wants/thinks/feels today as more evolved than whatever he had/did/wanted/thought/felt yesterday.

One of Trent’s fingers pulsed against the back of his neck.

He swallowed. His fingers gripped and ungripped the top of the stall door. See, the thing was….

Trent, with his head still down, reached for Jeordie’s turned-aside face. A fingertip came to rest against his right eyelid. Trent’s thumb pressed almost gently against his left cheek. The crook of his hand cradled Jeordie’s lower lip.

“It’s all your fucking fault,” but he said it in a way that betrayed a sort of humorless smile on his downturned face.

The thing is…. Jeordie thought, his eyes seeing nothing but scratched and scraped-up paint peeling on the stall door, thin fluorescent light above it, and the thing. The thing was….

“My balls are gonna fucking explode,” Trent said, his head still bent, his weight shifting to his forward foot. The hand he had on the back of Jeordie’s neck spasmed with the second syllable of “explode”.

A bouquet of shivers blossomed up the base of Jeordie’s skull. See, okay, the thing is….

He swallowed again, Trent’s fingertip still against the edge of his eye. All those looks Trent had been giving him fluttered in his mind, like pages in the wind. It’s all your fucking fault.

He felt a nudge at his chin.

With one palm pressed flat against the partition that held his weight and the other holding onto the door, with Trent’s hands on his face and the back of his neck, with his voice not feeling quite right even while it was coming up his throat…he let Trent’s nudge turn his face, and he said, “And that’s my fault?”

Trent clenched the back of his neck again, and that…that… The thing was….

And then Trent’s head came up and forward.

Jeordie imagined he saw a sliver of that sharp yellow-brown under Trent's eyelashes, and then he shut his own eyes, just a hair ahead of Trent’s mouth pressing against his. And then…nothing. Not kissing, really, just…breathing against each other, lips closed and smashed against teeth. The sound of breath through nostrils, the sound of the running toilet next door. Like they’d been put on pause.

He risked lifting his eyes from the dark blur of his own eyelashes to—

Trent’s left eye, watching him.

He felt his eyes widen at the blatantness of it.

As if Trent had been waiting to make sure he had his attention, he slipped his hand off Jeordie’s face and hung it around Jeordie’s neck. His forearms pressed like a weight against Jeordie’s chest.

Trent’s left eye, unblinking, and then suddenly closed.

Jeordie felt like he was breathing harder, and how could Trent not notice? He jerked back what little distance he could against the partition and broke the kiss or whatever it was by turning his face. His lips parted so he could lick them, quickly, a little nervously…. See, Trent, the thing is, he needed to say, and started to draw in the breath to say it, started to turn toward Trent to say it right to him.

Trent’s mouth was on his again. Trent’s forearms pinned his shoulders to the partition.

He gripped the top of the stall door, his lips parting again, this time against Trent’s, a tunnel opening between them, moist breath passing through it, the tip of a tongue flickering forward, seductive, like a snake’s. His stomach dropped when Trent’s tongue fluttered against his, and then Trent surged forward.

Jeordie’s left palm was still flat against the partition. His fingers tried to dig into the metal—then he reached up and grabbed hold of Trent’s arm, gripped it hard, kissing back, giving as good as he got. He let his body slide down a little, one foot planting itself between Trent’s legs, fingers closed around solid muscle. His nostrils breathing Trent in, the smell of Trent, the up-close, heated-up scent of Trent.

Scent, Trent.

The thing was. The thing was he’d told himself he wouldn’t get involved within the band, a band, any band he happened to be in, anymore.

He let go of the top of the stall door to say something, to put his arm between them and break the kiss so that he could say something, but Trent shifted at the same time, his tongue pushing deeper, his leg pushing forward. Thigh against crotch.

Instead of putting his arm between them, Jeordie reached overhead and grabbed the top of the partition. Crotch against Trent’s thigh. Tongue learning Trent’s mouth, Trent’s taste. The scent of Trent everywhere, and Trent pushed against him again. And then broke the kiss without pulling away. He bit Jeordie’s chin.

Fresh air, and Jeordie was panting—not from being out of breath. He tipped his head back, forehead against the forearm above it, and let Trent work his way down the side of his neck, down into the hollow at the base of his throat. The thing is, the thing is, the thing is…

In a decade he hadn’t even had to think about turning anyone down. Hadn’t had even a moment where he’d thought “What if he…and then I’d have to…” about anyone in any band he’d played with.

The scrape of Trent’s stubble made his breath come out uneven. Sensations shivered upward and outward from every patch of skin Trent’s lips passed over.

He swallowed and licked his lips, pulled at the top of the partition.

After a decade, memories lost their edge. He could lean against the partition with Trent’s thigh jammed against his crotch and say that Daisy—that Scott—had been a mistake that had turned out to be way more frustration than it was worth, and he’d hardly even done anything with him for Christ’s sake—but he couldn’t feel how shitty living through the aftermath had been anymore. What he could feel was Trent’s thigh rocking against him. What he could feel was Trent’s hand closing around his wrist above his head. He clenched his teeth, his breath hissing against them. A little voice, one that sounded like his own, said, Come on, that was ten years ago. And Trent…he’s not Scott, right? And you—this isn’t the same fucking situation, right

Yes it fucking was—maybe with less drugs, maybe more in his right mind, if there was such a thing, but it was the same fucking situation no matter how his brain twisted it: bandmate-a-bandmate.

Thigh against crotch.

Trent’s arm, the one Jeordie still had a hold of, twisted around quickly, breaking free. In the space of a breath, Trent had both of Jeordie’s wrists pinned against the top of the stall.

A sound broke free from Jeordie’s throat. He stopped trying to picture himself saying a dry-mouthed, “See, the thing is….” But the thing is, his brain whispered, in Manson’s rasp and right up against his ear, the thing is: how the fuck far have you ever gone? Dry humping Scott fucking Putesky with a cocaine-limp dick in your pants doesn’t quite make you a man of the fucking world. Pretending to suck my cock on stage? Big fucking whoop. I don’t think that iron bar digging into your thigh is pretend. What are you gonna do about that?

Trent looked up long enough to shift both of Jeordie’s wrists to one hand. His eyes caught Jeordie’s for the briefest of moments on their way by—and the look…like a question Trent didn’t want to hear the answer to. He turned his attention downward, the fingers of his free hand feeling under Jeordie’s shirt tail for the button at the top of his jeans.

Jeordie tipped his head back. This is fucked up in so many ways. Not the least of which was how much he didn’t feel especially motivated to clear his throat and say, “Look, Trent, uh, see, the thing is….” It was just noise in his head, a mindless mantra. Manson was echoing it mockingly back at him. ”The thing is, the thing is, oh poor Jeordie what’s the thing that is?

His jeans slipped a few inches down from his hips. He pressed the back of his head against the stall partition. His eyelids slipped closed like blinds pulled to hide the shame. He wanted to feel Trent’s hand push inside his jeans.

Trent’s thigh moved away. The back of his hand brushed the front of Jeordie’s jeans before reaching back up to his wrists, taking them, using them and the nudging of his knees and hips to turn him around. Trent pressed his wrists back against the stall partition.

Jeordie lay his cheek against warm metal. A peeling sliver of paint just a few inches from his mouth shuddered when he breathed out. Okay, now the thing is….

…I haven’t done this before. I haven’t…. He closed his eyes. Fuck.

Trent moved both wrists into one hand again, his grip firm and as unyielding as the ridge of the top of the stall wall that dug against Jeordie’s inner wrist.

The sliver of paint shuddered against his breath again.

Jeordie’s jeans, with Trent’s help, dropped down to his knees. He felt Trent grasp the waistband of his underwear. His eyes squeezed shut again. Shit. There came a tug—then air, a nothingness against his skin. He pressed his forehead against the wall. When his eyes flickered open, while Trent forced his underwear down to his knees, all he saw was dark grayness with faded light playing around the edges of his vision. He blinked a few times, almost in surprise, but Trent’s presence didn’t fade like the lights.

Fingers swept his hair off the back of his neck, their touch light and a little sweat-damp, or maybe it was his own sweat. The front of Trent’s pants pressed against his skin, below his shirt tail, rough and warm; then he felt Trent’s teeth grab the skin and muscle at the back of his neck. He gasped. A muscle in his right arm jumped, the beginning of a movement to reach behind him and grab Trent, but Trent’s hand clamped down, crushing Jeordie’s wrists together. Jeordie’s hand made a fist nonetheless, and Jeordie pushed his face upward, his nose flattening against the stall wall, his breath coming back at him, hot and damp.

The rasp of a zipper pull riding metal teeth cut through his breathing and the shshshsh of the running toilet next door. Jeordie felt like he’d stopped breathing.

The rustle of clothing followed.

Then something smooth and warm—almost searing—prodded his skin.

Jeordie felt like he’d forgotten how to start breathing again. The only sound he could hear was the toilet. The world seemed to stop for a second….

“If you’re going to pussy out”—Trent close behind him, close to the back of his neck, one hand still mashing his wrists against the top of the wall—“now’s the time.”

He rubbed his tongue across the roof of his mouth. He swallowed. He told himself that if he didn’t say anything right now—no ‘no’, no ‘yes’—it would just happen. That was the best thing, just…. It should just happen. He closed his eyes and waited.

Behind him, Trent hawked in his throat.

The sound of spit hitting Trent’s palm made the skin behind Jeordie’s ears tighten.

Just let it happen, let it happen. He clutched the top of the partition. Let it happen.

What are you trying to prove? Manson said in his head.

He felt the head of Trent's cock bump him before pushing between his cheeks. His muscles clenched. Trent’s cock slid over skin…skin…skin…nerves--

Jeordie sucked in a sharp breath and held it.

Trent pushed.

It felt for a second that it wasn't going to get in, and maybe that was just fine, maybe—

With a sharp, wrenching pain, it pushed through.

His throat muscles worked tightly, wanting to make a sound. He gritted his teeth against it. His fingernails dug into the palm of the hand he’d fisted.

Trent's hand cupped his shoulder, then Trent's forehead pressed against the base of his neck.

His hand let go of Jeordie’s wrists and dropped to lie lightly against Jeordie’s side. Jeordie held onto the partition above his head. His muscles shoved what little of Trent was in his body out, or maybe Trent let himself pop out, what little of him had made it in.

Trent whispered, "I think you need to relax."

Jeordie wetted his lips. His forehead sweated against the partition. He turned his face, but didn’t try to look backward. The sliver of paint shuddered when he spoke. "Easy for you to say."

"We don't have to."

Like I'm going to pussy out now. He loosened his grip on the partition, stretched his fingers, then held on again. He shifted his feet a little farther apart. His jeans and underwear dug into the sides of his knees. "No, it’s okay." Relax. Relaaaax. He turned his face downward again and closed his eyes. Relax. The skin behind his ears tightened at the soft, guttural sound of Trent hawking up fresh spit. Re. Lax.

As he felt Trent positioning himself again, he drew in a deep breath. He had a feeling his own cock had gone soft—scared out of its mind, probably—and then there was that pushing again, pushing and that sharp, sudden pain...and then just discomfort, like taking a shit backwards.

Breathe….

How's it feel? Manson asked in his head. I've always wanted to know.

Fuck off.

Trent’s breaths carried words on them, almost hidden.

Jeordie decided he didn’t want to know what they were.

He blinked in the dark grayness of the shadows against the partition. He could feel Trent up against him, all the way up against him, all the way in. Trent's fingers dug into his hips, holding them while he drew back, then pushed forward, unintelligible words falling over Jeordie’s back like breaths.

Where he gripped the partition was slick with sweat. His fingers were slick with sweat. He spread his arms, finding newer, cooler places to hang on to. Behind him, Trent worked up speed. It’d be over soon enough. He wiped his forehead against his shirtsleeve. He could stand it till it was over.

He focused on Trent’s fingers jammed against his hip bones. The taking-a-shit feeling was starting to abate, at least.

And then his eyes snapped open. From somewhere distant he heard a noise that sounded like one he’d make, a noise from so deep in his throat that it was more resonance than sound. A new feeling welled up in him, in the pit of his stomach and deep in his balls and god knew where the fuck else, but with every one of Trent's long strokes this something, this feeling, rose, then rose more, bigger, like the tide, building up, moving in, threatening to crash over him, pulling back when Trent pulled back only to build up higher again, taking his breath away as Trent thrust forward.

His toes curled, digging into boots.

He pushed a few inches away from the wall, cool air rushing in to chill the sweat on his cheek. He suddenly became aware of the whole package—him clutching a wall in a bathroom stall, jeans slipping down his shins, ass pushed against Trent. Trent’s fingers making dents in him. God knew what kind of look on his face. He cradled his forehead in the crook of his arm as the feeling welled up to fill every corner of him again, so strong he almost couldn’t take it, that noise resonating in the bottom of his throat again.

Behind him, Trent grunted softly, percussively, a fresh ‘uh’ with each forward thrust, some of the uhs little more than spikes of breath.

You wanna know how it feels? he told Manson, licking his lips. He felt the Manson in his head lean forward with a leer. Sure, why the fuck not.

Get fucked.

Trent slammed forward, his breath exploding from him. On his toes, he curved against and clung to Jeordie. One arm clutched Jeordie’s chest, holding tight. Two more short, quick thrusts, one final grunt, and it was done.

Jeordie panted, his eyes pressed against his forearm, his dick hard, his balls aching.

Trent pulled away, leaving behind a feeling not nearly as pleasurable as the one that had preceded it. “Fuck, I needed to get that out of my system.” He tangled his fingers in Jeordie’s hair at the back, tugged. “I fucking needed that.” Then, as he let go: “Hey, that chick at the meet & greet, did she look like Berkowitz’s twin sister or what?”

With the sound of Trent adjusting his clothes behind him, Jeordie pried his hands from the top of the stall’s wall and straightened. “Yeah, she did.” He was still breathing a little fast, but it was getting under control. He backed away from the wall.

Trent, his pants hanging off his hip bones, the fly flapping open, turned aside to make room.

Jeordie turned aside, too, angling his back toward Trent. He slid his underwear up his thighs, tucked in his tumescent cock. His thumb slipped across the head of it, causing a shuddering feeling to unfold all the way down to the soles of his feet. He steadied himself with a hand on the wall and gave his cock a squeeze through his underwear.

Behind him, Trent’s zipper made as much noise going up as it had coming down.

Jeordie bent to pull up his jeans.

“There was this party,” Trent was saying. “You remember it?” There came the rattle of the stall door’s lock being turned. “It was, I don’t know, Christ—ten, twelve years ago? Around the time we were putting Antichrist Superstar together.”—Avoiding putting it together is more like it, Jeordie added in his head—“We were sitting around the studio fucking out of it, all these people—I have no idea where all the fucking people came from, unless I imagined them. Tracks we’d been working on were pounding so loud that you couldn’t hear what anyone fucking said. Maybe they weren’t tracks we’d been working on….”

Jeordie’s zipper didn’t sound nearly as loud as Trent’s had. In a voice that sounded far-off to his own ears, he said. “That describes a lot of parties.” He turned toward the door, straightening his shirt, not looking up—not knowing what he’d reveal with his face if he did.

“It’s a fucking blur, but I remember this: Berkowitz leaning across the arm of the couch and planting a kiss on your mouth,” Trent said.

That party. He pushed his fingers into his right front pocket like he was trying to straighten it out. Trent wasn’t saying anything anymore. Finally, he had to look up.

“Remember what you did?” Trent asked, serious. Or was he? Sometimes it was hard to tell. Concrete walls.

Jeordie did remember, but he shook his head. “Unh-uh.”

“You laughed, like it was the most hilarious fucking thing.”

Yeah, laughed instead of returning the kiss, and Scott had gone away pissy. And that was the end of their three-or-four-day, nothing but making out, dry humping and groping affair. Or pretty much the end, passive aggressive bullshit and ‘I’m quitting the fucking band, you guys are fucking assholes’ drama that followed aside.

Jeordie said, “You remember that after all this time?”

“Chick looked just like Berkowitz, didn’t she?” Trent’s eyebrow cocked upward, then he turned and swept open the door.

Jeordie stood there, the button on his jeans still undone.

There was a smack, then the clatter of the chair landing against the tiles. A swoosh and the sound of a wooden chair being pushed across ceramic tiles by a door….

Then just the shshshs of the running toilet.

It took Jeordie a while to get it, and even when he thought he did, he didn’t know what to make of it. When he stepped from the stall, his brain turning to the thought that someone would be coming to ask where the fuck he was any minute now ‘cause by now the band should probably be heading toward the stage entrance, he caught sight of himself in the long mirror that ran behind the four porcelain sinks.

He hadn’t changed a bit.

He could still see where he’d smeared his fingerprint on the glass.

He righted the chair on his way out and, not knowing where it had actually come from or what to do with it, he used it to prop the restroom's door open.

And it was almost like nothing had happened at all.

~fin…for now (two more parts to come) ~
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Wrapt