There's never been such grave a matter
As comparing our new brand name black sunglasses
All these poses such beautiful poses
Makes any boy feel as pretty as princes

 

It’s an industry party and not even his fucking part of the industry, so he doesn’t really feel bad about getting wasted out of his fucking head and smoking like a chimney, even though everyone around him is glaring. If they could burn holes into him they would, holes in his tight black fuckin’ sexy suit, holes through his new black sunglasses, holes through his hair, which would probably look like some cool new European thing to do, like that hair-tattooing thing or that weird lace eyebrow shit.

He thinks about it for a second, then takes his cigarettes out of his mouth, bringing the tip towards a thick black strand, hanging right in his face. It could be cool, to have random holes burned in his hair, like some fuckin’ Joan of Ark thing, or something. He’s always wanted to start a trend.

He does it, too, touches the cherry to the strands but his hand is yanked back just in time, strong fingers wrapped around his wrist, and him too shaky from alcohol to do much of anything about it. “Hey, man, what are you doing?” a voice says, a voice entirely too bright and cheerful for this time of night. Its an intervention voice, and all Rufus really wants right now is to drink another beer and then find someone to drive him home, not get lectured on how Jesus is the pathway to clean living.

He looks up, expecting some bland annoying country singer, because who else gives a fuck about a drunk stranger at a party? Instead he sees a boy, fuckin’ beautiful boy, big bright shining eyes, golden-brown hair haloed around his head, cheekbones like razorblade slashes from God. Rufus isn’t sure if he wants to fuck him or put out his cigarette in this beautiful boy’s eye.

He narrows his eyes behind thick black plastic, then just rips them off his face, not caring how dramatic it looks. “You’re one of those boyband fags, aren’t you?” Beautiful looks taken aback, and his fingers loosen a little on Rufus’s shoulder. Rufus has to grin. “I don’t mean that as an insult. I wouldn’t fuck a Backstreet Boy if you paid me. You, I’d totally fuck though. And the one with the hips.”

“Justin?”

“Britney’s little boyfriend the flamer.”

“Justin.”

“Whatever.”

Beautiful looks down at the floor, and Rufus really wishes he could remember this kid’s name. He seems brain-dead, but sweet. “Um. Your glasses are melting.”

Fuck! And apparently the kid isn’t as brain-dead, or at least brain-vacationing, as he looks, because he noticed the noxious plastic fumes of $200 sunglasses melting before Rufus did. Rufus looks down at both cigarette and glasses, now fused together, sighs, and declares both to be unsalvageable. “Fucking a.” He looks up at Beautiful, who looks both slightly worried and slightly amused, and decides that he likes him. “You know where I can throw my expensive trash away?”

Beautiful smiles, looking down at the floor again, and maybe he is just that brain-dead, or shy as fuck, god knows how. “Um, yeah. I’m pretty sure the kitchen’s empty. Caterers all cleared out.”

“Or we could just drop them off the balcony.”

“I’m thinking not. You’re attracting enough bad attention as it is.” And sure enough, he’s getting his share of disapproving looks, but if he wanted approving, he would have gone to Elton’s party, not this boring shithole. He can’t even get proper drugs here.

Beautiful starts leading him somewhere, presumably the kitchen, hand still on his shoulder, and Rufus lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. But I’ll have you know if I end up pissing, it’ll be in the kitchen sink, not onto the street like I was planning.”

He grins, because he can almost feel Beautiful wince behind him. “Maybe we can find you some coffee, too.”

 

* * *

 

There is some coffee, some black rank American stuff, and Rufus hates it but this beautiful boy looks at him so prettily and asks him to, so he swallows it down. He’s starting to sober up now, and feeling vaguely like an asshole for pulling that shit earlier, but hell, every party needs a bitchy drunk party-wrecking freak show, and no one invited Fiona Apple.

Beautiful is sitting on the white white counter, and his legs are crossed at the ankle, swinging prettily in glitter-covered red leather pants. Oh yeah, definitely an industry fag. Rufus can call them from a mile away. It’s a good thing that he only falls in love with straight boys, because this one would be a shoe-in, otherwise. His knight in sparkly armor, rescuing him from the cruel confines of the witch’s castle, also known as a Madonna-hosted event.

Rufus bows his head to take another sip of truly evil coffee, and when he lifts it again, Beautiful’s fingers are curling around a strand of his hair. “I guess I was too late. You burned it, anyway.”

Rufus shrugs. “Not that big a loss. I was starting to feel like early David Bowie anyway, and I try not to be too derivative.” Beautiful laughs, and Rufus winces only a little. Hangover, yes, but the sound is too gorgeous for him to care. “Hey, Beautiful, you feel like dropping your name?”

“Um. I’m JC.”

He seems kind of embarrassed, so Rufus leans forward and puts a comforting hand on his knee. “Been awhile since you’ve actually had to introduce yourself?”

JC blushes. “Well…yeah. Kinda.”

“Gee, I wish I had that problem. I’m Rufus, by the way.” JC looks a bit pained, like he hadn’t meant to bring up the whole famous-pop-star thing, so Rufus kindly changes the subject for him. “So, why’d you decide to rescue me? JC.”

“Well, I’d been trying to get up the balls to talk to you all night, and I figured when you were drunk and about to light yourself on fire was as good a time as any.”

“I wasn’t trying to light myself on fire,” Rufus says. “I was trying to burn holes into my hair as a fashion statement.” O…kay. From his brand new sober point of view, it doesn’t make that much sense to him either.

“Trust me. With all the alcohol in your hair, you’d have gone up in flames.”

Rufus makes a face, grabs a hank of his hair, sniffs it, and makes an even worse face. “Touché.” JC grins, lots of white teeth and his nose looks huge. Huh. A flaw, but he’s still gorgeous as hell. Rufus is finding this boy more and more fuckable by the second. “So, was I right?”

“Right about what?” JC’s face is completely guileless, and Rufus almost feels bad about corrupting this innocent soul.

“About you being a boyband fag.” So much for morals, though.

“Oh. Um.” Rufus hadn’t though it possible, but JC’s cheeks turned even pinker. “Maybe. Kind of—why?”

“Because I was thinking about taking you home with me, and I was wondering if you were amenable to the idea.” Rufus keeps his eyes on JC’s own wide and flustered ones, waits a beat, a second, a minute for a response.

Eventually it comes. “I’m…amenable. But only if I drive and you promise not to kick me out in the morning or ask me if I can hook you up with Justin.”

Rufus smiles and steps forward, putting his arms around JC’s neck. “Who’s Justin?”

“He’s the one with the hips. Remember, Britney’s little boy—”

Rufus stops him with a light kiss, right on the mouth. “I said, who’s Justin.”

JC looks puzzled for a moment, but then a pretty little smile comes over his face. “Oh. Um, okay. Grab your cigarettes. We’re leaving.”

 

END

Title and lyrics from Rufus Wainwright’s “Poses.”