Chapter Text
⁓ WILHELM ⁓
White. It had to be white. Because white was the light behind his closed eyes. White was the noise inside his head. White was the blank table that was his heart. So it had to be the light white today.
With a hand that was shaking only so little – only little because he had learned to control it – Wilhelm reached out for the powder case on his vanity. The quiet click of the box, the touch of the soft puff on his skin, the familiar smell of his makeup helped to soothe the tension. It was a ritual that gave him peace for a minute – his very own rhythm when he pulled his stockings all the way up his thighs and fixed the straps of his garters. When he adjusted the tape around his head that would hold the wig in place. When he dipped the brush into the creamy lipstick to color his mouth red – paint it lush and plump the way it never looked when he was being Wille. When he was being someone else. Someone ‘real’.
The thought made Wille wince. Like this clumsy, insufficient boy in the mirror had ever been someone real. Wilhelm didn’t feel an ounce of real in the body his parents had assigned him in his making. Most of the time he felt off, strange, wobbly. Uncomfortable. Like a jellyfish with no spine and too many legs. A fucking alien. The realness came with the drag. The realness came with Belinda – the one and only, the glam girl, the star of the night. Given – they were still working on the ‘star’-part. But glamorous she was, unmistakably so. Belinda was classy – all sparkling dress and long gloves, curved lashes and silvery hair pins, matching the ‘aristocratic face’ people liked to assign her. For whatever this was supposed to mean.
Wilhelm didn’t really know how the transformation happened. But the moment he slipped on his dress – the tight, glittery fabric hugging his curves that were nonexistent in his baggy boy clothes, but pure seduction in a fit and flare – the world would blur and change. And all of a sudden, everything didn’t feel as heavy anymore, or as serious. In Belinda’s skin he could do anything, be whatever – whoever – he wanted to be. And the audience loved it. Or rather HER – the apparition he had created, the show he put on. The lie he sold. But Wilhelm didn’t care. It was good enough. It was all he would get. Damn, he needed to hold onto SOMETHING.
Wilhelm Lundberg – the boy behind the mask – he was nothing. Wille knew, because he’d been told. Over and over by the people close to him. There was nothing about him to catch anyone’s attention. Nothing noteworthy. Nothing lovable. And it was probably his own fault, for he was hard to love. At least that’s what his mom had said on several occasions – in private and public, like at his school’s Lucia dinner when Wille had refused to agree to pick up on the piano lessons he’d dropped ‘to stop his fingers from fidgeting and do something useful’. He was hard to love, because he didn’t fit. And he didn’t function. And there wasn’t a day in his life when Wille didn‘t wish that he was more like Belinda – more confident, more independent, more loved.
But this was all fake, of course. Belinda was fake, nothing but an illusion. A beautiful, stunning, breathtaking illusion – but still. And with her, Wille’s realness was nothing but an image, projected in his mind.
„What is it like to have two different characters?“, Felice had asked him once.
But Wille didn’t really understand. It didn’t feel like he was having two characters. Much more it felt like he was having none at all. He was a gap, an in-between, a human hole in existence, a lost soul crawling into the skin of someone else, putting on their flesh and style like a costume without ever really fitting.
Talking of fitting. With a little grumble he adjusted the tight underwear that was holding his not-so-feminine body parts out of the way for the dress to flow down his front flat and smoothly. Wilhelm didn’t tuck, for – damn – it was painful as fuck! So the classic gaff silhouette wear had to suffice. The boobs were the tricky part, for they tended to move around all by themselves. Just like real ones, he had been told. Honestly – how did girls even cope? To avoid Belinda becoming the live image of an abstract painting, Wilhelm had retorted to wearing a stiff corset with the bulges just in the right places on his flat chest. It was good to hold everything in the correct spot and also straightened his spine and made him stand a little taller.
When he was done with the make up and styling and bent down to slip on his favorite pair of high heeled boots, the giddy pre-show feeling sped through his limbs and chest like a bolt of lightning. It made his guts clench – and for a short moment Wille felt like throwing up. But the bad sensation retreated like a wave before the oncoming storm, and with two or three deep inhales, it was gone again to be replaced by endorphins, adrenaline and excitement. Oh damn. Why exactly was he doing this shit again?
Wille liked to blame it all on Felice how he had ended up in drag. Surely not by his own doing, oh God no! He’d been busy keeping control of Wilhelm – the teenage bag of hormones – who was already knee deep in trouble for failing his parents’ expectations one after the other on his bumpy road to manhood. There was no chance on earth this Wilhelm would ever have figured out that there was more to discover under the layers of awkwardness, anxiety and flaming acne than his teenage-brain was able to process. Luckily, there was Felice. And deep in his heart, Wille couldn’t be more thankful for the moment that had led up to this, that had opened his eyes for a talent he hadn’t known his body was holding. And the more their friendship grew over the years, the better he got to know her, the less he could shake the feeling that maybe she had known right from the start. That his best friend had SEEN him – seen him so much clearer than anyone else around him ever dared to. Clearer than he could ever see himself.
Oh, he had cringed so hard when he’d been required to catwalk the living room in Felice’s shiny high heels for that truth and dare back in High School at the tender age of sixteen. He’d been sure he’d fall and twist his ankle in the process, for he was known to do his share of stumbling over his own feet in his flat-soled sneakers time and time again. And those heels had looked scary like freaking sky scrapers to him. But the moment he had stepped into the shoe, Wilhelm’s whole world had changed. Felice had helped him close the thin straps across the bridge of his socked foot, he’d bent up and rolled back his shoulders – and for the first time in his life, Wille had stood tall. He had squared his shoulders and felt his spine crack when the weight of a boy’s lifetime had slipped off them.
And then he had walked. Dead certain like all the others that he would faceplant right into the carpet. But after all it was a dare – and Wille wasn’t a quitter. Well, actually he was, with all the oral presentations he had sneaked away from, not even having to pretend to be sick, when the thought of speaking in front of his giggling and grinning classmates alone was good to instantly make his stomach turn. Still, for some unknown reason he was intrigued – if only to see how far he would make it until he would eventually hug the floor. But his feet were doing things they had never done before, locked in the tight princess shoes, safe and secure like they were part of his legs rather than bulky add-ons. Wille had walked in a way he had never moved, one foot in front of the other, unfailing, had crossed the living room in long strides, suddenly aware of his little ass that was curving in an intriguing new way, hips swaying – and what do you even mean he was having HIPS? Wilhelm had walked, head held high, and turned to look down into his friends’ smiling faces with a content smirk that was so unlike him to find them clapping and cheering and staring up at him with expressions that had morphed from mischief into excitement.
Seven years had passed since. Time had crept by, life had happened, and Wille wished he could say that he had grown. Truth was, he had grown older, but inside he felt smaller than ever, doing lousy imitations in a shitty backstreet bar, hiding his true face behind fake lashes and powder only to feel free for a little moment in the limelight. To be someone. Someone else. Someone that wasn’t Wilhelm Lundberg, youngest son and brother of a distinguished Stockholm dynasty of bankers, all tied up in hand-tailored dark suits or pencil skirts and shiny shoes, dealing money that wasn’t their own and taking a good share in the process. For what exactly, Wille didn’t even know. Only that it was A LOT. And they spent it on their glossy villas, pretentious conferences, big black cars and botox injections. Wilhelm couldn’t memorize all the names of the people his parents were acquainted with all across the city and the country, he could not keep track. But one thing he knew was that each and every one of them snobs would despise him if they knew. Which was fair in a way, because Wille despised them just as much, and he needed to summon all his acting abilities to pull through the long cocktail hours and business dinners he was forced to attend as his family’s appendix. Which was exactly what he was. An appendix. A useless little thing that was only good to bring trouble to the apparatus that was functioning so very well without him. Wilhelm was the pain in his parent’s bodies, the side stitch that would never ease, the infectious little piece of flesh that should better be removed, cut out before it could cause serious damage to the system. Obviously, it was only a matter of time until the surgeon would put down the knife to cut him off. Wille knew. And he couldn’t decide whether he dreaded the moment it would happen, or longed for it.
“Get your ass up, you’re on in five!”, the assistant shouted genially as was her nature and pulled Wille from his musing.
Right. He had a show to do. Well, ‘show’. The ‘show’ in question was composed of an amateurish five-song lip-synch playlist, but still. He had chosen the songs himself, carefully selected the music and lyrics that had spoken to his heart and meticulously memorized and practiced every word, so his lips’ silent movements would fit the playback audio track just perfectly. Which turned out to be a waste of time and effort. For it really wasn’t like the audience in this shit hole of a bar was cherishing any kinds of expectations concerning the evening entertainment that was accompanying their beers. But Wille wanted to do it right, put a little bit of glamor to the naked walls and gloomy atmosphere of the underground bar. For it was the only spectators he had. So he would step up onto that baby stage, make a fancy walk and a slow turn (there wasn’t any room for more), greet the audience that would probably not even notice him in between their chatter, and pull up to the microphone like he had done a hundred times before to perform the shit out of his playback, all pursed lips and deep looks with his hands a bit sweaty in his gloves and his little heart beating high up in his throat. And man, how he loved it!
If sixteen-year-old Wille had only known that words came so much easier to him when they weren’t his own. If only masking his face would have been an option back in school to let his voice run smoothly and ease the helpless stammering that were his presentations. That a well performed lip-synch would have carried him through his choir performances so much better than the tormenting sound of his breaking teenage voice that had almost made him pee his pants with shame. If he had known already back then how to wrestle down anxious, fidgeting Wilhelm and let Belinda take on the job – oh how much easier it could all have been. But late was better than never. And now here he was, pulling off public stage performances for the hell of it. Well, he was definitely not doing it for the paycheck, which was a joke, frankly. Even more compared to the ample salary that was piling up in his brother’s bank account. But at least – for a borrowed hour twice a week – performing on a stage made Wilhelm actually FEEL something. And let him look fucking gorgeous in the process, if he himself might say so.
His set went smooth, although Wille wasn’t fully committed, for all those dark thoughts that had washed over him with no warning in the tiny dressing room had pulled his mood down. But a little bit of gloom fit his performance just fine. And then it was standard program, and although Wille wasn’t ready to admit, the same old songs on repeat were starting to bore him out anyway. Maybe it was about time to change the setlist for something more interesting. When he climbed down the stage after a still satisfying round of applause and pulled up to the bar, Wilhelm could feel the eyes of the few guests at the tables following him. They were mostly creepy old men who were drinking alone, and a few overexcited middle aged women with weird hair colors and too much cheap jewelry clinking on their wrists and fingers. Their curious gaze made the little hairs stand up in Wilhelm’s nape. Serving as the center of attention during his show when he was performing, acting, FAKING, was the most exciting thing, set to make Wille’s heart beat faster – in the good way. The only good way he knew. It was very different though when people looked at him off stage. Down on earth with his feet on the ground, their curiosity made Wilhelm feel uncomfortable.
Without a word, the bartender skid a drink into his hand. Wilhelm downed it in one long gulp, when a man pulled up by his side and let out a chuckle.
“Wow, the lady can drink!”
Wilhelm looked at him with a frown that was pretty un-ladylike, but really he wasn’t in the mood for a flirt right now, even though it was part of the job at the bar. Be welcoming. Be nice. Smile the big smile and humor the boastful men who spent their money on drinks and casually tended to mistake the performing artists for cheap dates or hookers. It made Wilhelm sick to the stomach – all that chauvinism on display, the ‘no means yes'-mentality that he wanted to shove right back into their salivating mouths. Wilhelm was neither interested in dates nor hookups. He was there to entertain, maybe hide from his dull life for a little while. But surely not to get laid. He wanted to forget, not be reminded of the disappointments of life – sex with strangers being a particularly prominent one of them.
He had tried. Hoping for relief in someone else’s embrace, to find any sort of desire or affection in the arms of whoever would take him home, only to be hit in the face by the cold winds of truth right after. They were different truths for different people. But each one was more painful to swallow than the other. Some of them wanted Belinda. They wanted her garter and her corset, wanted to feel her lean waist and her long legs, tear down her stockings (and ruin them in the process. Hello? These were expensive, idiot!) and suck on her heels. Others – the vast minority though – had wanted Wilhelm but despised Belinda and everything that came with her and had made him feel even more shitty about himself in the end. He’d been fucked over. He’d been abused. He’d been called names. He’d been tumbling home on wobbly legs under stifled sobs with his make up running down his cheeks, swearing to himself that NEVER AGAIN would he let this happen. But Wilhelm was a liar. And the best lies he sold were the ones he kept telling himself.
Of course, he’d also had his share of potbellied men hitting on him at the bar. He was so fucking tired of them all. And tonight was absolutely not the night to suffer another one. Belinda put down the glass with a smack and was just about to silently turn on her stiletto heel and make a very impressive exit, when the man pulled up his cheeks in an expectant smile and held out his meaty hand.
“Porter Bengtsson”, he introduced himself.
The man blurted his name like it should signal something to her, and the way he was acting businesslike caught Belinda off guard. So she tentatively reached out her hand and put it into Mr. Bengtsson’s grip, who pulled it towards himself to brush a kiss onto the back of the gloved hand.
“Belinda”, Wille said with a soft voice and strained smile.
At least he didn’t have to give away his real name. It was one of the few advantages of doing a drag show. Belinda was the gate keeper and made sure no one came through to Wille, the scared little boy that didn’t want to talk to strangers, didn’t want eyes on him, didn’t want their attention on his flaws. Which they would undoubtedly perceive at a first glance, uncover the hypocrite that was hiding underneath the layers of pretty fabric.
The man smiled even wider and started a little praise speech, babbled about Belinda’s talent and how she was having genuine star qualities. But Belinda hardly listened. Sure, the words were pretty, but they were always the same, and she had heard it all before. In the end it was nothing but a little private show the men wanted, topped with a hand- or blow-job or maybe even a little bounce on their shriveled cocks for an extra tip. Blast them! ‘The lady’ was done for the night. Belinda let our a silent sigh and was just about to excuse herself when the man pulled a little old fashioned paper card from his pocket. It had a QR-code printed on it – and a name in golden letters: PARADISE. Wilhelm had mostly zoned out during the man’s rambling, but the name on the card made him jump right back to reality.
“We’re always looking for good people”, the man was just saying. “Come over on Friday if you’re free, and we can arrange something.”
Wait – was this guy offering him a job? A job at the Paradise club – a variety and show nightclub of the better kind, with some genuine evening program, a good weekend crowd and champagne in high glasses? Suddenly, Wille felt his cheeks blaze up.
“I’m very honored”, he croaked out, and the man nodded like it was just the right thing to say.
“See you on Friday then”, he chimed, and retreated with a comical little bow.
Wide-eyed, Wilhelm turned the little card in his fingers after he had left. Fucking shit. The Paradise. Had he just grabbed himself an audition? The chance to get into real show business, like – the one with live music and a stage with an actual curtain?
“Want one more?”, the voice of the bartender sounded in his ear, and Wille nodded, eyes still blank.
He absolutely needed another drink. And maybe a third, because all of a sudden, his legs felt like pudding and his stomach was doing weird little flips.
The Paradise. He was going to fucking Paradise!
⁓ SIMON ⁓
It was one of those days. One of those days where everything was shit – even before the sun was fully up. Simon had dropped out of bed with a bad hangover from gaming deep into the early morning hours. As usual, he had closed his eyes far too late, and his alarm had screamed him out of his coma far too early. He would have wanted to throw the infernal terrorist against the wall if it hadn’t happened to be his phone. And although it was old and battered with a scary crack in the screen, it was his lifeline. So he just turned it upside down and buried his head under the pillow. But it didn’t help – the alarm kept blaring at him to get his tired ass up. With an annoyed whine Simon stopped the ringing, hauled himself over and rolled to the floor where he kept lying for another minute on the smelly carpet, pinching his bleary eyes with a miserable groan.
He must really stop those late night gaming sessions, for – although work didn’t start before five in the afternoon – he still had to go to school. A fact that he liked to forget about these days, because seriously, what was school even good for? He was late with his studies anyway, for it had taken him quite some time to summon the courage – and the money – to apply for university. But now half the teachers were on permanent sick leave – or whatever lies they came up with to not show. Half the students were idiots. Maybe more than half. And after almost two years of studying, Simon still didn’t have any clue what he was meant to do with his degree. Social economics had sounded cool in the beginning. It had sounded like something grounded, something he could work with. To make an impact and change things. By now, he was drowning in dusty books – yes, actual BOOKS for God’s sake, in the middle of the twenty-first century! And he was so fucking tired of hearing his lecturers drone about the big gaps in theory and practice, how there really wasn’t much ‘social’ in economics. And if you happened to be born on the burdensome side of life, it was very probable that you would be stuck there forever. Which Simon definitely would with a master in social economics, because what job would he even get with that? He already pictured himself as one of those highly overeducated taxi drivers, rambling about the underlying injustice of social systems while scrubbing the vomit of his last customer from the seats of his cab. Heyo. What a promising vision to start the day with!
“Simon!”, the voice of his mom sounded through his door.
It was strong today. Cheerful. Simon sighed one more time and pulled his revolting body up from the floor. She needed her breakfast, and he needed to go. And there it was again, slapping his face out of the blue like it always did – the question whether Linda wouldn’t be much better off in a proper nursing home instead of staying with him. But then again he still wanted her close – and how would he even afford that? Ever since that stroke had struck her down in the middle of work one regular Tuesday afternoon, their lives had changed drastically. If Linda hadn’t collapsed right at her workplace - the middle of Karolinska hospital’s E.R. – she might not have survived the blood clot that had shut down her brain. It was thanks to her diligent co-workers and the specialist doctors close at hand that she had gotten quick aid and good care. But even for a member of the health system, the extent of public medical care was limited. And although Simon picked up the frustration on the nurses’ faces, there was only so much they could do for her.
Everything had changed since then. But that’s how life goes, right? C’est la fucking vie. And as much as Simon hated the system that gave patients with private insurance fresh orange juice and extra cushions whilst his mom was abandoned to fight for herself, he didn’t want to be resentful. Not when he remembered how he had been a hair width away from losing her for good that day. His mom. The woman who had given him his life in birth and every single day after. He would never leave her side now that she needed him to return the devotion. He would pay her back, shed all the love and support he had been able to stack inside his heart thanks to her. Be the strongest he could be – for the both of them. Linda – his mama – didn’t deserve anything less.
But although Simon kept telling himself that he was carrying everything well, it didn’t mean it wasn’t heavy as fuck. There were the good days, when she smiled at him almost like she used to, with that sparkle in her eyes and the warm touch of her hand. And there were the bad days, when she barely recognized him, and her legs wouldn’t carry the humble weight of her body. The worst were the throwbacks, when she would lie in bed and yell into the darkness of the night, call for the man that had left so many years ago, cry the name of his father who had let her down so badly. And Simon would sit in his room, head in his hands, rocking like a baby, blocking his ears in a desperate attempt not to hear.
“Shut up!”, he wanted to scream when it happend. “Just shut up! He’s gone! He’ll never come back. He doesn’t care about you – about any of us!”
He wanted to grab her shoulders and shout into her face that the man she loved had never existed, that it had all been lies and treason. How he had left them alone to rot away in a house with moldy walls – a young immigrant woman with two kids all by herself because that BASTARD loved the drink more than any of them. But he couldn’t, because she would just stare at him and then start all over, cry and search and call his name.
As time went, the bad days grew less, but didn’t lose any of their stinging force. Sara had returned from Spain the moment she had gotten the news of Linda’s stroke and offered to stay, to return to Sweden for good. Simon had declined. He would manage. Just like he had managed his whole life. He would make sure his sister was doing good and his mom was taken care of. He was a grown-up, he could cope. But his sister was stubborn as a mule – a trait that seemed to be running in the family – and hadn’t listened to his objections. After a few months, she had moved back, hired a place in one of the run-down apartment buildings in the rougher parts of town and found herself a part-time job as an assistant cook. Now she took her turns watching over their mother in the evenings when Simon was working late. Like today.
Simon stood in the kitchen, stroking his hair to and fro and cursing quietly while he was figuring out the leftovers in the fridge. With a hiss he tried to untangle the curls that were growing too long with his fingers. In the past, his mother would have cut his hair. Now he had to keep away all the knives and scissors from her clumsy hands. But it was the end of the month, and there were still more days left in the calendar than bucks in his wallet. The hair dresser would have to wait for a little longer.
“Good morning, sunshine!”, Linda greeted him when she appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, dressed in her nightgown and blue bathrobe, propped up on her walking cane.
Her voice was soft, and it broke Simon’s heart into a million pieces to see her standing there in her late forties, already looking like a grandma. He cracked a weak smile and put the plate he had prepared onto the table next to her favorite coffee cup before he helped her move to her seat and pressed a kiss onto her cheek.
“Good morning, mama.”
Simon’s eyes jumped to the clock on the oven as he stuffed his cheeks with a big bite of toast. Damn, he had wanted to take a shower. He NEEDED that shower, to be frank. But he wouldn’t make it today. So he just jumped into his clothes and sprayed some good amounts of deodorant around himself. It would have to do. He was running late already and still needed to drop Linda off at the day-care center before heading to university. Simon had started to leave his lectures earlier and earlier those last months to pull up to his job, that was shit as well, but at least it flushed money into his pockets. Money he could use very well. Money that came from people who were free to enjoy live evening entertainment in a glittering variety theater and drink overpriced soda and champagne while lolling in a nice lounge chair. People who could afford to dabble in the pretty things in life like music and dance and comedy shows. Like there was no rent to pay, or meds or doctor’s bills, or the permanent repairs on his dad’s broke ass car Simon despised with a passion, but needed to get his mom around. But although he was only a worker and would never be part of the Paradise late night show, because Bengtsson – under his thick layers of gallantry and flattery – was a racist asshole, Simon could sit and listen, see the acts and steal a little bit of the dream for himself. To keep his sad little heart going.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried.
“Later maybe”, Bengtsson had mumbled when Simon had approached him the first time to request an audition for his music.
“Another day, son”, he had huffed the second time, when one of the performers had to be replaced and Simon had collected his music sheets and all his courage to apply for the slot.
“Absolutely not” he had chuckled at the third, and this was also the last time, Simon had asked.
Because there were only so many times one could humiliate oneself without breaking. Or ask his boss for a crumb and be ridiculed for the attempt. Maybe one night, when there was an emergency – one of the regulars being whacked by a stomach bug or something – Simon would snatch the opportunity to fill in. Damn, if he would only get one little chance, he was sure that stage would receive him well, and the Paradise audience eat his songs up. He had worked there long enough to know what the people wanted. He was sure he could serve. But instead, he had to watch those fake-entertainers, those lip-synch-idiots, who could neither sing nor dance properly take the place that could be his in the stage lights night after night. It was hard to endure.
But then it was so much more sensible to stick to the music engineer-job, confine himself to the back of the stage behind the curtain and the work rooms that no customer would ever get to see. After all, it granted him a safe income instead of being tied to the mood of the crowd, that went up and down like the tide and could break a performer’s neck with one single screwed up show. It would be stupid to perform, and it would be risky. It wasn’t meant for him, because Simon was bearing responsibility. At least that’s what he kept telling himself in the long dark hours, when his secret dreams came seeping through the cracks in his heart and made it beat slow – heavy with bitterness and longing.
Well, fuck this shit.
Better to be safe than sorry.
⁓ WILHELM ⁓
It was Friday afternoon, and Wilhelm hurried down the dark corridor, a garment bag draped over his arm, and the strap of his gym bag biting into his shoulder. He had hardly slept during the week, so full of excitement and anticipation for this evening with all the possible scenarios his mind had painted for him. And he had realized – amongst all the panic and anxiety this opportunity had thrown him into – just how much he wanted this. To be a part of something for once. A team. A crew. In a place where he wasn’t the freaking unicorn, but one of many inspiring, creative people with talent and style. Somewhere in the universe, by mere accident, some stray stars must have aligned in his favor for the first time ever. But blast it – miracles seemed to be happening right now. He was here. He would try. And who knew – maybe he could even make some friends?
The dressing room was supposed to be somewhere on the left. But the first door he had found had been locked. The next one he’d tried was a toilet. He was surely not expected to change in there, so where the fuck was this goddamn changing room? He was short on time, for even though he had packed all the stuff he’d wanted to bring already the day before, he had panicked last minute and ransacked his whole bag for last minute changes. Now he was almost late. Perfect.
Not that he was being part of the variety. But he was supposed to give a taste of his performance before the doors opened, show his style and his songs and maybe snatch a spot on that stage for a few nights. This was a chance he’d been waiting for forever. For his art to get recognition and his style admirers. If only he could find the fucking dressing room, because right now he had nothing to show but a pair of blue jeans, some beat up white sneakers and a face that was far too boyish and unappealing to get him anywhere.
In random despair, Wille tumbled through another door on the other side of the corridor, only to find it being a storage room.
“Oh no, fuck, NO!”
The whine he let out was pathetic, and he shut the door with an angry bang.
“Can I help you with something?”
The unexpected voice made Wille jump, and when he turned, someone was standing in his way. It was a boy, roughly his own age, with a curly head, two big brown boba eyes and the plushest of lips he had ever seen. Wille couldn’t help but stare. Those were the kind of lips he didn’t even manage to paint onto himself with all the gels and products that were lining his beauty case. And instantly he wondered, how those lips would feel against his own, his throat, his stomach. How they felt when they were real and not just an optical illusion.
What the hell? Wille blinked. He wasn’t exactly the flirtatious type, so this kind of thought had come straight out of nowhere. Oh, he’d had his share of hookups. Not because he craved the sex, but because that’s what people did, right? And there had been a time when he had thought that he was people. Turned out, he was not. Even if the girls and guys did not turn against him somewhere along the way and he’d managed to have something like decent sex, Wille had never caught what the big deal was. The shot of adrenaline that pumped through his veins when he performed on stage felt so much better than any intimate experience so far. Sex was so uncomfortable – with all the heat and the sweat and the mess, the weird noises and painful intimacy, crowned by some awkward half-hearted cuddling or an embarrassed walk of shame home with a sore throat and a sticky ass crack. No, Wilhelm had never clocked the appeal. And his sudden fascination for a random stranger’s lips was clearly nothing but professional interest.
“Ahm, actually I’m looking for the changing room”, Wille blurted out, and the boy raised his eyebrows.
“Well, it’s not in there. Unless you want to change into a broom.”
“Funny”, Wille deadpanned dryly, “I figured that.”
His tone sounded way more annoyed than he wanted it to, but he wasn’t in for silly jokes. Time was ticking away in his neck.
“Are you going to do a show tonight?”, his opposite asked under a furrowed brow.
Wille only brought forth a pained smile. Could they just cut the small talk and focus on him getting directions? Not only was he growing more stressed by the minute – the boy he was talking to also radiated the pungent smell of too much perfume – or whatever body spray he had used in tons and tons – and it made Wille dizzy. He needed to get away.
“Not if I don’t get ready in time”, he hissed.
And if he regretted his harsh tone the moment he had spit the words out, there was no way to capture them. And there was no time to care now. The curly boy put his hands up in defense.
“Alright, chill!”, he mumbled and stepped aside, hand vaguely gesturing towards the far end of the corridor. “Back there on the right.”
Wille frowned. “But they said it’s on the left?”
“Well, then they were either lying, or you’re a bad listener”, the boy groused. “You can trust me with this or go and open another six doors and poke your pointy nose in. Do as you please. I gotta go work now.”
With this, he angrily pushed past Wilhelm and stomped down the corridor in the direction, Wilhelm had come.
“Me too!”, Wille yelled after him, a strange knot forming in his inners, a little fiery ball of embarrassment and anger.
Ughh, that one had gone bad. Hopefully, he would never see this guy again. Eventually he found the wanted dressing room just where the boy had indicated – on the RIGHT side of the corridor. What was wrong with his brain? He should really try to pay more attention. Wille whispered a quick thanks into the void, which would probably have sat better with the person who had given him directions, but fuck this now, it was getting late and later.
⁓ SIMON ⁓
He really hadn’t wanted to sit through the whole ass uni-day this Friday. Fridays were always busy in the club, and he absolutely wasn’t looking forward to setting up the whole evening show on a run, just because Mr. Gudbrandsson was getting a little overexcited about his foundation management lecture. Which was a bit funny with his belly bouncing and his drooping old-man-cheeks wobbling in his rapture – unlike the lecture itself, that was not fun at all and actually short from drilling a hole into Simon’s skull with its outrageous dullness. But exams were coming up, and there was some stuff he had to catch up with if he didn’t want to fail them – nerve-racking foundation management unfortunately being one of them. But then it was one thing to CHOOSE to drop out of school sooner or later. But it was a completely different matter to be thrown out because of bad results. So he sat and listened and took notes like a good student, until Gudbrandsson was finally done with his blabbering, and Simon grabbed his stuff and jumped to catch the bus to Paradise.
He had just let himself into the club via the back door and slipped out of his jacket, when a guy approached him from the other end of the corridor. He was tall, with light brown hair that was leaning into gold, lean features and a huge bag dangling from his shoulder. Simon watched as he frantically ripped the door to the broom closet open, and a curse left his mouth that sounded like Satan himself had booed at him from the storage room. What the hell was he doing there? Backstage access was for employees only.
“Can I help you with something?”, Simon called out as he walked up to him, ready to confront the random stranger who was roaming the back of the club unauthorized.
“I’m looking for the dressing room”, the boy hissed.
Simon frowned. He’d never seen that guy at the club before. But him having a purpose – and a huge costume bag over his arm – made it likely that he had permission to be there. Simon scrutinized his features. Up close, the boy looked quite a bit … cute with his high cheek bones, floppy brown hair, baggy jeans and some nice silvery rings on his fingers. It made Simon pull his lips into a smile. And suddenly he felt the urge to say something funny. Something witty. Something … flirty? The guy WAS cute after all. Maybe he could save this ass of a day with a pretty smile. And out was the broom joke before Simon could even check what he was saying.
It didn’t land well. The look he got in return was good to freeze his blood, and Simon felt how he instinctively bit his tongue to punish it for being too quick, too unreflected. Like always. Okay, no sense of humor on that side of the corridor. He screwed it. But maybe if he was nice and showed some interest, they could overcome this whole slightly cringe encounter. Simon was always curious. Because – as much as his guts burned with the acid of jealousy in the face of the evening performances – he also wanted to know what every artist was up to.
“Are you going to do a show tonight?”
Because if he did, Simon wanted to be there and see him. Fresh face, fresh energy. Maybe he was good, so Simon would have the chance to learn something. Maybe he sucked, and Simon could practice his eye-roll. He was in for whatever. Only not for the strange guy to jump into his face, not only not answering his question but also questioning Simon’s answer in return. Hello? No need to be rude, idiot! Cute or not – this guy carried his nose far too high for Simon’s liking. He could get lost, change in the coffee kitchen or the staircase. Like – the dressing room wasn’t even hard to find. There was a literal pictograph of a clothes hanger on the door! Just use your eyes, duh!
With an angry huff, Simon ditched the idiot and beelined for the stage door, mind full of emotions that were good to erase the very last crumbs of his nonchalance. Well, sorry for trying to be helpful. Sorry for trying to be nice. Sorry for wasting time on another stuck-up, arrogant prick who could neither say hi nor thank you. That fucker better not cross Simon’s path again, because his nice-boy-potion was spilled for the day. The thunderstorm that was brewing in his inners made Simon kick the heavy fire door open with a force. But the door was made from thick steel, solid and stubborn, and Simon painfully bashed his toes in the process. Of course. Dam it, this day had been fucked from the start. And it didn’t look like there was any chance to unfuck it anymore. So all Simon could do was trying to get it over with. And hope hallway-bitch would go up in flames.
⁓ WILHELM ⁓
The dressing room was huge, lit by a shit ton of lamps, hangers and drawers everywhere. It looked like it was built for a big crew to get ready, and the sight gave Wilhelm the chills. Especially as he was standing there all by himself. His glance shot to the clock above the door and he jumped. In a rush he peeled out of his clothes and ravaged his beauty bag for utensils. This was his big chance after all, and he was not gonna blow it. His hand was shaking when he applied the eyeliner and had him curse under his breath, but eventually he made it – and the apparition that climbed the stairs to the stage fourty-five minutes later was a sight to behold.
Wilhelm swallowed hard. His underpants had slipped between his ass cheeks and his back was wet and cold with sweat. But nobody needed to know. It was a lesson he had taught himself – never show your fear. Never let them know. A bit of nervousness came naturally with the beginning of a show. Every time. And it was good. It was what kept him focused, kept his body in fight mode. But now it was so much worse to stand there in front of a completely empty room, working lights on full brightness and only a bunch of people shuffling around the place in the background. Wilhelm drew in a long breath and pressed play on his phone. The big speakers of the room came to life and suddenly, with the first chords of his favorite song, the world around him grew hazy. When he opened his lips to join the verse, everything seemed to vanish in the lights, softness and comfort wrapping him in when muscle memory took over. Wilhelm was scared to death in the face of the audition – but Belinda knew what to do. It was her dream, she was exactly where she wanted to be. So she swayed, she acted, she flirted – and she won.
„I can offer you a half-year contract“, the bellied man Mr. Bengtsson belted when Wille stood in front of him twenty minutes later. „Three performances a week, Friday and Saturday and the family show on Tuesdays. You’re in?“
Oh, Wille was SO in. And before the information had even sunk in, he had nodded yes and smiled and signed the papers. Three shows a week, six months. What was even happening? When his new boss had bustled away to wherever he was needed, Wille grabbed the edge of the bar counter to steady himself. He was swaying a little on his heels, fighting for his cool, but the big smile that was plastered across his face betrayed him. He just needed to breathe. In and out. Slowly. Not let the panic take over, because this was good. It was a good thing. Something good was happening in his life for once. And it had all been his own doing!
„So you made it to the dressing room“, a snide voice called out and pulled Wilhelm from his meditation. „Or did you change in the pantry?“
Wilhelm pulled his lips into a toothy snarl. Of all people who were working around this place of course he had to meet this guy TWICE!
„As a matter of fact, I found it”, he chimed, all fake politeness, wiping off the fact that he had been dangerously close to actually changing in the pantry.
Then he startled. Usually people didn’t recognize Wille easily when he was in drag. Many of them didn’t see through the masquerade at all, and Wille had made it his special talent to look as little like himself as possible in his make up. Because if he looked different it was easier to feel different. And that’s what the whole show was all about in the end, right? Feeling different. Lighter. Free. How had the runner boy put his finger down on him so easily, called him out on being the lost hallway-guy in a blink of an eye? Was something wrong with his make up? Had his hair slipped? The curly boy had halted next to him, a box with cables and audio equipment in his grip, biceps straining under the weight of his load. His eyes wandered over Wille’s chest that was right in front of his nose with Wilhelm in heels and the other boy being considerably shorter. And for some strange reason, the big eyes roaming his body made Wilhelm’s skin tingle.
“Your straps have slipped”, the boy commented, still staring at Wilhelm’s chest, where a complicated pattern of straps and twirled fabric was shaping the top of his dress.
“They have not”, Wille corrected. “It’s asymmetrical.”
The boy frowned. “Asy …”
“Metrical”, Wille completed and brushed a hand across his diagonal neckline to make a point, but it didn’t leave much of an impression with his opposite.
“You’re sure? It looks a bit weird.”
Pardon him? Wilhelm had spent hours on cutting and sewing the boring top into something interesting, picking up on the latest fashion and creating something unique with his own hands. How dare this clown call his creation WEIRD now out of the blue? With a condescending look Wilhelm pursed his lips and lifted his chin a bit higher for good measure.
“Someone who smells like they just lost a perfume war at Lyko’s maybe shouldn’t talk about taste. It was good enough to get me the job. So it’s not THAT weird, obviously”, he snapped.
His opposite's eyebrows shot up and he adjusted the box in his hands that seemed to get heavy in his grip.
“What job?”
“I’m gonna perform three nights for the next months. So I guess I’m part of the squad now”, Wilhelm chirped with a good load of undisguised triumph. And why would he not? He had worked hard to get there. He had EARNED this!
Still Wilhelm realized how the face of the boy fell a little, and the sassiness left his features to be replaced by something else. Disbelief. A bit of wonder maybe. Definitely anger.
“Well, congratulations then”, he groused. And with a lip curled in disgust, he gave Wilhelm a cold all-over. “Like we need even more fakes around here.”
With this he pushed past Wilhelm and disappeared on the backside of the stage.
Wille was left behind, baffled. He wasn’t sure whether he’d heard right. Had he said fakes? Or fags? Whichever it was, it cut right through him. Because both slurs hit far too close to home. It was the worst combo he could think of, the worst his family could think of, the worst petty existence Wille was doomed to endure. But fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck the stranger and his hurtful words, because that’s all he was in the end – a stranger. A homophobe, a random hater. Only one of many who had passed him by and who would still follow. Wilhelm didn’t have time for this. He had a show to prepare.
But back in his bed that same evening, the eyes of the boy kept coming back, tearing through the cozy gloom of Wilhelm’s bedroom. The only room he had ever felt safe in, with a key to turn and a blanket to hide under. Ever since he was a kid, he had felt the urge to creep under any cover he could find, to hide himself from judging eyes and harsh words. Because voices were muffled to his ear under the fabric and eyes couldn’t find him if he lay still and didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t blink. There had been times when he’d wished that he could just disappear, dissolve into thin air and leave no trace of himself, clear the space he had occupied so selfishly, uselessly for far too long already.
Wilhelm was no longer a kid. But the urge to hide was still strong inside. And now an impudent intruder had breached the sanctuary of his hideaway, an audacious little brat that claimed to judge him, although he really didn’t know shit about Wilhelm. The anger that flooded his chest at the thought made Wille’s body heat up, and he kicked off the duvet he had huddled under to get some air. Those mocha eyes that were huge and shiny – so beautiful but violent in the intensity of their stare, the brown color promising warmth, only for his words to come down on Wilhelm like ice rain. No, that guy didn’t know shit, and Wilhelm would not let him get under his skin. He’d heard all kinds of accusations before, he could swallow one more. Wille didn’t need compassion, and he didn’t need a friend either. And he would certainly not waste another minute of his time thinking about this idiot. After all, Wilhelm would be high up on that stage, basking in the spotlights. And the curly boy would pick up the litter.
Fuck him three times over!
He could go to hell.