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Lights, too bright that his eyes hurt. The air, stifling as it always was backstage. But there’s excitement in the air because it’s not everyday that David fucking Bowie invites you to his fiftieth birthday party, the actual hell. Dave has many stars to thank for aligning, and he still isn’t a hundred percent sure how he got here, but here he is.
He spends most of the time mingling with the other artists - that he’s very glad to call his peers, some of them living legends. They don’t always talk shop, some talk about their personal lives, whether it was a mess of a Rorschach blot or lack thereof.
Then, there’s Brian.
Brian walks - no, saunters in, presence like some kind of changeling, Mercury in Mount Olympus finding his way among the gods. Of course, his eyes are heavily kohled, and his lips glimmer a chrome purple which would look ridiculous on anyone else except Brian Molko. His nails catch the light, mirroring the color of his lips.
He easily slides in and out of conversation with the others, occasionally slinking a hand around a shoulder, and on the waist. Dave is just keen to watch him, listen to that pleasant lilt of his voice. There’s an elegance in the way he speaks, yet it borders on the good kind of unhinged as he makes an offhand comment or another that isn’t even on the same tangent as the conversations he’s found himself in.
It’s oddly fascinating, Dave thinks as Brian exchanges a smile with Robert Smith before he catches Dave in his line of sight.
“Dave,” Brian tilts his head, hair falling over his face. Dave shifts his weight, sliding his hands into his pants pockets as he smiles at Brian, who’s already sidling up to him. “Sit,” Brian says, already pushing Dave down onto the couch placed behind them.
“Some party, huh,” Brian says, their shoulders brushing.
“Sure is,” Dave says with an incredulous laugh because this obviously isn’t just any other party that he’s used to at all, and their host isn’t just anyone.
“Having fun?” Brian asks, wrapping his arms around Dave just as a reporter who’d been making his rounds doing some backstage interviews for the concert comes by. He asks, of all things, Dave and Brian to interview each other about their shared love for Bowie and music. They oblige.
There are cameras, of course, because such events need archiving. Brian gives Dave one of those knowing glances, and all Dave can do is smile. Brian narrows his eyes at Dave, suddenly looking very serious, which only makes Dave furrow his brow in response.
“Is there something on my face besides my hypnotic looks, or -” he asks, before Brian mutters to himself something like this won’t do, and brandishes, of all things, a blunt eye pencil from his pants pocket. He leans in, one hand clasping Dave’s shoulder to hold him in place, and the other to draw onto Dave’s eyelids. Dave keeps still, letting Brian do his magic.
He watches, mildly dazed as Brian’s painted lips fall slightly open in concentration. The sight of a hyper focused Brian had its own hypnotic qualities, Dave thinks as Brian finishes, leaning back to admire his work. His fingers gently touch Dave’s face as he checks for any smudges of the eyeliner. At last, looking quite pleased with himself, he grins. “There. All better.”
Dave snorts. “I’m sure you did a great job.” No one better than Brian to do up his eyeliner, after all. “Anyways, sorry for the little interruption there. What were we talking about? Was it about guitars or drums or..."
The interviewer’s patience is saintlike as he smiles, gesturing for the two of them to resume their organic conversation. In between, the photographer asks for them to do more candid poses, and so the pair indulge that request. Dave pulls Brian close for a hug, arms tight around his back. Brian reciprocates excellently, pressing his cheek close to Dave’s face.
“Another pose, if you please,” the photographer nods, and the smile on Brian’s face is wicked. He exchanges a look with Dave, and the two of them get wrapped up in each other’s arms, mouths open in a strange imitation of a French kiss, tongues touching, all brazen.
The photographer laughs, unfazed because well, considering where he was and who the subjects of his photographs were, he shouldn’t even be too surprised at all. After taking a few more shots, each pose slightly more off kilter than the last, he thanks the pair for their time, and Brian tugs Dave back onto the couch, laughing and laughing.
“That was fun,” Brian says, and Dave looks at him with an unreadable expression. “What, you’ve never Frenched a man in front of a camera before?”
“No,” Dave chuckles. “Not in front of a camera.”
Brian smiles slightly, and is only just a bit caught off guard when Dave glances around, most of the party either occupied in conversation or enjoying their drinks, and he leans in to press a kiss to Brian’s lips. Brian blinks in surprise, before he makes a pleased noise, smiling into the kiss. Brian tastes a little bit like alcohol, and something sweet, perhaps his lipstick, Dave thinks distantly.
“Your lips might turn chrome purple,” Brian laughs when they finally pull apart after a few lazy, unserious kisses.
“I could just say it’s makeup for the concert,” Dave says, rubbing slow circles onto Brian’s shoulder. “No one would even bat an eye,” he shrugs casually as Brian smiles, before tilting his head to kiss Dave again, hand resting on the back of his head. No one else seems to care, or to notice, and they continue to make out lazily, breaths shallow.
“Sorry Dave, you’re next to go on up,” a distant voice calls, probably one of the stage crew who doesn’t sound that fazed. The two part, their lips making a damp noise as they do. Dave looks just a little bit regretful when he pats Brian on the shoulder.
“Duty calls,” he says as he presses another kiss, soft on Brian’s cheek.
Brian leans back to coquettishly prop his legs onto the couch, hands resting behind his head. “I’ll still be here,” he hums.
Dave grins, before turning to head to the direction of the stage.
