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True By First Light... (Tony Lovato gen)
“True at first light and a lie by noon.”
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sharon_hate
Rated: R (language)
Disclaimer: These are fictional events.
Notes: Sandra Cisneros-Francesca Lia Block inspired. References to holy grail (object, quest).
Laurel Canyon will take him to the place he needs to be. (Implied Tony Lovato/Benji Madden)
“True at first light and a lie by noon.”
His neck and arms are open and it makes him feel half-ashamed and vulnerable, even under the protection of his invisible sleeves. Almost especially because of them.
These women walking with babies held close to their hearts, and bald, dark men – men who have almost as many as he does – watch him as he passes. Not the first time he’s ever been eyed because of skin, considering his first neighborhood, but it’s been a long while and it never stops the back of your neck from tingling.
Reluctantly, he pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his too long shorts in a pointless attempt at reassurance. He continues his journey (quest) down the sidewalks that are cracked and buckling due to relentless roots.
Tony’s face is red; too much sun, too much drinking, too much here. It burns to touch, him and her (you) too. Tiffany tried to comfort him once by brushing soft, manicured fingers against his cheek, but only recoiled, holding her hand, fingertips, tightly to her chest, “Oh, Tony…” He jumped back, too, but only a little – not enough for her to notice.
The small rock he had managed to continually kick for the past several blocks sails far past the concrete curb and into the asphalt street. Small cars and pick-up trucks fly past; they slap it back and forth in their own game and it prompts Tony to restart his journey (quest).
The air is thick here and the horizon isn’t orange and pink like it is in Los Angeles, Hollywood, it’s a melancholy mixture of grey and periwinkle. It hasn’t begun to cool yet, either, not like in district where he stays, lives, whatever it is he’s doing there.
All of this is so fucking strange, he thinks to himself. It’s humbling and sad, a combination that leaves his stomach with a pull, almost like the ache for more he feels the morning after. The week after, too.
Old-modern 70’s houses and small adobe houses filter out, almost unnoticeably, until all there’s left is liquor stores and busy streets and a bus stop. An older man, with paint splattered jeans and work boots leans against a wall, eyes trained downwards leaving Tony standing silently at the street corner. Laurel Canyon takes you everywhere you need to go.
Tony wonders for a moment where it is he actually intends to go, but it doesn’t matter because a bus has pulled up and it’s drawing him inside. Laurel Canyon will take him to the place he needs to be.
He climbs up the steps after an old woman with the two plastic-and-paper bags steps down and pulls out his wallet, digging out bus tokens from years earlier. The driver, squat and dripping, gives him an odd look yet remains quiet, so Tony deposits the coin and ambles down the rows, sitting three stops from the end.
No one’s giving him funny looks here. Here: you’re all on the bus; you’re all the same, at least for now.
There’s a boy, though, sitting on the vertical-long bench, with almost tan skin and black hair, stuck up in every which direction. Thick, plastic headphones hang on his ears, he’s somewhere else, with his eyes closed, and he’s someone else.
He looks like him, Tony thinks, maybe before all that. An Uncorrupt Pete.
Tony didn’t know him then, but that’s how he imagined him. Hopeful, exuberant with a self-made casing, a shield, to show everyone how tough&rough he is. When all your dreams come true, where do you go from there? Down.
He shakes the thought out of his head and turns to focus on the passing buildings, small and colored.
When they had been on tour together, Tony and Pete, they would lie together and whisper about all the things they wished would happen about how much Tony wanted Him to happen.
Tony couldn’t be like this with them, this wasn’t how he was. Pete just smiled; surreal moments like this are what he lived for, sneaking onto beaches at all hours of the night. They always smelled distinctly of salt (the ocean) and blueberries (Pete).
The bus comes to stop, blocks and blocks from where they had begun, and the boy stands up with a briefest of glances at Tony. He had hazel eyes, he notices, and then he leaves.
His band had left them, too. Because they always do, as bitter it sounds. Pete’s gone, off with that boy who isn’t anything like Tony. It still hurts, even if he hadn’t exactly fallen in.
Down, down, down the street they go, not stopping until they’re in a business district of sorts – warehouses, small chain stores, wide streets for all the people that aren’t around. He pushes himself off from the plastic seat and maneuvers his way down the aisle, past the blank faces, to the second pair of doors, hopping off as the doors fold in.
The bus speeds off, once the driver realizes no one’s in need of his assistance. There’s a chalky, ash taste left in the air, from the exhaust, but it slowly fades away until there’s nothing left but the haze that’s always been there.
The sun has practically set by this time, and the tall lamp posts flicker on almost as Tony thinks it.
“Where the fuck am I?” Tony says irritably to himself, walking the short distance over to a small, painted cinderblock wall. Sitting against the edge, he stares into the street. This, where ever he is, is a wasteland, devoid of anything physically or mentally stimulating. Laurel Canyon is a vast disappointment.
Why is he here?
There’s a faint sound of someone giggling, they sound so far away from him leaning there. Turning around, he sees two young boys stumbling down the warehouse parking lot, laughing and pushing at one another, and it lingers, just a little longer than appropriate.
One of the boys has dark hair, and the other has pale, sandy blond hair. Tony has to look away. Chicago calls to him; he can hear it in the wind. Los Angeles, here, Laurel Canyon, he was not meant for it. Too much sun, too much drinking, too much here.
He can feel his phone begin to vibrate faintly from the bottom of his pockets.
“Hey,” Tony breathes into the phone. Hot streams of air blow against him, the valley wind until slowly everything becomes still. It still hasn’t cooled down, even with the streets now dark and the moths crowding around the long lights in the sky. Everything is hot and everything is still.
“Hey,” Benji says, fuzzy from a raspy voice and a bad connection. “Where are you?”
Tony sighs. “I don’t know. I’m lost. I’m not sure where I’m going.”
Those kids, the dark head of curly hair and the one with the straight blond, are gone now. If he strained his eyes, he could see them traipsing down the street, still with the long touches.
“Is that supposed to be a-,” Benji coughs, “a metaphor or something?”
Tony sighs again, “Guess so.”
There’s a long period of silence between them, where Tony stares at ants in the faint light from above and Benji sits and listens to Tony breathing.
“Do you want I should pick you up?” he asks but he doesn’t wait for a response. “Where are you?” Tony frowns.
“Told you, I don’t know. Somewhere on Laurel Canyon…”
“Wow, Tony, that’s real fucking specific,” Benji murmurs, causing him to roll his eyes. “Laurel Canyon runs all through L.A.”
“Yeah, I know. I was hoping that-” Tony cuts himself off and looks up at the dark sky. No stars, but there’s a plane flying overhead and it almost seems to hover. “Maybe it would take me somewhere. Some shit – yeah…” he trails off.
“See anything major around you?” Benji sighs. Tony gets up and turns around. The warehouse, it’s a Sears. He looks up and down the street, looking for any well-known landmarks.
“A Sears, an IHOP, and – uh, a tattoo shop. A closed one,” Tony spins around once again, and lays eyes on a small movie theatre and a freeway on-ramp. “Oh, there’s this theatre and some fucking freeway.”
“Which freeway, Tone’?”
“I don’t goddamn know!” Tony scoffs, “It’s down this weird little street. There aren’t any lights and I’m being a pussy right now.”
“Fine, just – stay there. Okay?” Benji requests.
Tony hangs up the phone without answering and waits.
When he finally arrives 45 minutes later, Tony is sitting on the curb of the storefront arms wrapped around himself. It’s cold now but he should’ve expected as much. Los Angeles is a desert. Sweltering sun in the day and cold under the moon. Always.
The heavy door of the Escalade swings open in a grand gesture. Benji’s leaning over the center console, propping himself up on the passenger seat.
Silently, Tony stands up and gets up and into the truck.
“Where are we going?” he asks softly, buckling his seatbelt.
“My place.”
Tony nods and leans the side of his face against window and it’s cool to his cheek. They pull out of the parking lot and down the small street, onto the freeway.
“Did you get there-” Benji asks, as white and red lights from other cars stream next to and above them, causing their faces to glow. “To where ever it is you were going?”
Tony only shrugs, still peering out the window. “I mean-” Benji turns to look at him, lower lip tucked in between his teeth, and raises a curious eyebrow. “No one really knows where the Holy Grail is, though, right?”
Author:
sharon_hateRated: R (language)
Disclaimer: These are fictional events.
Notes: Sandra Cisneros-Francesca Lia Block inspired. References to holy grail (object, quest).
Laurel Canyon will take him to the place he needs to be. (Implied Tony Lovato/Benji Madden)
His neck and arms are open and it makes him feel half-ashamed and vulnerable, even under the protection of his invisible sleeves. Almost especially because of them.
These women walking with babies held close to their hearts, and bald, dark men – men who have almost as many as he does – watch him as he passes. Not the first time he’s ever been eyed because of skin, considering his first neighborhood, but it’s been a long while and it never stops the back of your neck from tingling.
Reluctantly, he pushes his hands deep into the pockets of his too long shorts in a pointless attempt at reassurance. He continues his journey (quest) down the sidewalks that are cracked and buckling due to relentless roots.
Tony’s face is red; too much sun, too much drinking, too much here. It burns to touch, him and her (you) too. Tiffany tried to comfort him once by brushing soft, manicured fingers against his cheek, but only recoiled, holding her hand, fingertips, tightly to her chest, “Oh, Tony…” He jumped back, too, but only a little – not enough for her to notice.
The small rock he had managed to continually kick for the past several blocks sails far past the concrete curb and into the asphalt street. Small cars and pick-up trucks fly past; they slap it back and forth in their own game and it prompts Tony to restart his journey (quest).
The air is thick here and the horizon isn’t orange and pink like it is in Los Angeles, Hollywood, it’s a melancholy mixture of grey and periwinkle. It hasn’t begun to cool yet, either, not like in district where he stays, lives, whatever it is he’s doing there.
All of this is so fucking strange, he thinks to himself. It’s humbling and sad, a combination that leaves his stomach with a pull, almost like the ache for more he feels the morning after. The week after, too.
Old-modern 70’s houses and small adobe houses filter out, almost unnoticeably, until all there’s left is liquor stores and busy streets and a bus stop. An older man, with paint splattered jeans and work boots leans against a wall, eyes trained downwards leaving Tony standing silently at the street corner. Laurel Canyon takes you everywhere you need to go.
Tony wonders for a moment where it is he actually intends to go, but it doesn’t matter because a bus has pulled up and it’s drawing him inside. Laurel Canyon will take him to the place he needs to be.
He climbs up the steps after an old woman with the two plastic-and-paper bags steps down and pulls out his wallet, digging out bus tokens from years earlier. The driver, squat and dripping, gives him an odd look yet remains quiet, so Tony deposits the coin and ambles down the rows, sitting three stops from the end.
No one’s giving him funny looks here. Here: you’re all on the bus; you’re all the same, at least for now.
There’s a boy, though, sitting on the vertical-long bench, with almost tan skin and black hair, stuck up in every which direction. Thick, plastic headphones hang on his ears, he’s somewhere else, with his eyes closed, and he’s someone else.
He looks like him, Tony thinks, maybe before all that. An Uncorrupt Pete.
Tony didn’t know him then, but that’s how he imagined him. Hopeful, exuberant with a self-made casing, a shield, to show everyone how tough&rough he is. When all your dreams come true, where do you go from there? Down.
He shakes the thought out of his head and turns to focus on the passing buildings, small and colored.
When they had been on tour together, Tony and Pete, they would lie together and whisper about all the things they wished would happen about how much Tony wanted Him to happen.
Tony couldn’t be like this with them, this wasn’t how he was. Pete just smiled; surreal moments like this are what he lived for, sneaking onto beaches at all hours of the night. They always smelled distinctly of salt (the ocean) and blueberries (Pete).
The bus comes to stop, blocks and blocks from where they had begun, and the boy stands up with a briefest of glances at Tony. He had hazel eyes, he notices, and then he leaves.
His band had left them, too. Because they always do, as bitter it sounds. Pete’s gone, off with that boy who isn’t anything like Tony. It still hurts, even if he hadn’t exactly fallen in.
Down, down, down the street they go, not stopping until they’re in a business district of sorts – warehouses, small chain stores, wide streets for all the people that aren’t around. He pushes himself off from the plastic seat and maneuvers his way down the aisle, past the blank faces, to the second pair of doors, hopping off as the doors fold in.
The bus speeds off, once the driver realizes no one’s in need of his assistance. There’s a chalky, ash taste left in the air, from the exhaust, but it slowly fades away until there’s nothing left but the haze that’s always been there.
The sun has practically set by this time, and the tall lamp posts flicker on almost as Tony thinks it.
“Where the fuck am I?” Tony says irritably to himself, walking the short distance over to a small, painted cinderblock wall. Sitting against the edge, he stares into the street. This, where ever he is, is a wasteland, devoid of anything physically or mentally stimulating. Laurel Canyon is a vast disappointment.
Why is he here?
There’s a faint sound of someone giggling, they sound so far away from him leaning there. Turning around, he sees two young boys stumbling down the warehouse parking lot, laughing and pushing at one another, and it lingers, just a little longer than appropriate.
One of the boys has dark hair, and the other has pale, sandy blond hair. Tony has to look away. Chicago calls to him; he can hear it in the wind. Los Angeles, here, Laurel Canyon, he was not meant for it. Too much sun, too much drinking, too much here.
He can feel his phone begin to vibrate faintly from the bottom of his pockets.
“Hey,” Tony breathes into the phone. Hot streams of air blow against him, the valley wind until slowly everything becomes still. It still hasn’t cooled down, even with the streets now dark and the moths crowding around the long lights in the sky. Everything is hot and everything is still.
“Hey,” Benji says, fuzzy from a raspy voice and a bad connection. “Where are you?”
Tony sighs. “I don’t know. I’m lost. I’m not sure where I’m going.”
Those kids, the dark head of curly hair and the one with the straight blond, are gone now. If he strained his eyes, he could see them traipsing down the street, still with the long touches.
“Is that supposed to be a-,” Benji coughs, “a metaphor or something?”
Tony sighs again, “Guess so.”
There’s a long period of silence between them, where Tony stares at ants in the faint light from above and Benji sits and listens to Tony breathing.
“Do you want I should pick you up?” he asks but he doesn’t wait for a response. “Where are you?” Tony frowns.
“Told you, I don’t know. Somewhere on Laurel Canyon…”
“Wow, Tony, that’s real fucking specific,” Benji murmurs, causing him to roll his eyes. “Laurel Canyon runs all through L.A.”
“Yeah, I know. I was hoping that-” Tony cuts himself off and looks up at the dark sky. No stars, but there’s a plane flying overhead and it almost seems to hover. “Maybe it would take me somewhere. Some shit – yeah…” he trails off.
“See anything major around you?” Benji sighs. Tony gets up and turns around. The warehouse, it’s a Sears. He looks up and down the street, looking for any well-known landmarks.
“A Sears, an IHOP, and – uh, a tattoo shop. A closed one,” Tony spins around once again, and lays eyes on a small movie theatre and a freeway on-ramp. “Oh, there’s this theatre and some fucking freeway.”
“Which freeway, Tone’?”
“I don’t goddamn know!” Tony scoffs, “It’s down this weird little street. There aren’t any lights and I’m being a pussy right now.”
“Fine, just – stay there. Okay?” Benji requests.
Tony hangs up the phone without answering and waits.
When he finally arrives 45 minutes later, Tony is sitting on the curb of the storefront arms wrapped around himself. It’s cold now but he should’ve expected as much. Los Angeles is a desert. Sweltering sun in the day and cold under the moon. Always.
The heavy door of the Escalade swings open in a grand gesture. Benji’s leaning over the center console, propping himself up on the passenger seat.
Silently, Tony stands up and gets up and into the truck.
“Where are we going?” he asks softly, buckling his seatbelt.
“My place.”
Tony nods and leans the side of his face against window and it’s cool to his cheek. They pull out of the parking lot and down the small street, onto the freeway.
“Did you get there-” Benji asks, as white and red lights from other cars stream next to and above them, causing their faces to glow. “To where ever it is you were going?”
Tony only shrugs, still peering out the window. “I mean-” Benji turns to look at him, lower lip tucked in between his teeth, and raises a curious eyebrow. “No one really knows where the Holy Grail is, though, right?”