‘Maybe I should just cut it…perhaps, shorter, it might be less attractive?’ The frustrated actor thought to himself, sifting his silky, powder blue hair through his fingers, pushing it behind his ear. Lowell Bridges heaved an aggravated sigh, glancing once more out of his dressing room window. There was still a gaggle of giggling girls just loitering out there, some with signs bedecked with ridiculous puffed hearts, written in curvy script about how they wished their first kisses all belonged to him. Lowell shoved his curtains together in disgust, turning away from his window dramatically, biting his thumbnail.“There has to be some way out of here, without being seen,” He thought aloud, scanning his dressing room for something, anything, that might assist him in his escape. His eyes fell upon a crumpled tarp of paint-covered muslin and his eyes twinkled in thought. A sharp series of knocks jarred him from his reverie. He scowled at the offending noise beyond the pine barrier, shaking his head. “What is it?” He snapped.
“Master Bridges, your fans are expecting you,” An older male voice called from outside. Lowell smirked, rolling his eyes. “Just a few moments of your time, young master. It would make the young ladies all very happy.” Sighing, Lowell stalked to his door, creaking it open an inch.
“One minute, that’s all I’ll do today. If you would be so kind, please inform Michael, my dearest friend, that I will need his aid again, and that he should expect me in three minutes. Go, now, whilst I prepare.” Lowell said quickly, waving the man away. Shutting his door closed again, he turned sharply, grabbing the tarp from the floor and a length of rope from his four-poster bedpost. In a matter of seconds he had laid out what appeared to be a shabby cloak and snatching a prop cane from his closet, his disguise was complete.
Inhaling deeply, Lowell readied himself for the screaming fan-girls awaiting him. Setting his shoulders, he seized the door handle and flung open his door, sauntering out to meet his adoring groupies. As expected, a roar of squeals and adolescent gasping assaulted his ears, nearly knocking him back a step. Plastering on his most fake, most charming smile, he bowed slightly.
“It’s so nice to see all of you. Thank you all so much for your support, and I hope to see each and every one of you at the show.” It almost hurt to smile and lie so big at the same time. Inclining his head politely, Lowell hastily turned tail and fled back to his dressing room. Once safely back in his private sanctuary, he donned his costume, tucking his light blue hair into his cap, pinning the stained muslin over the velvet hat. Checking himself one last time in his vanity mirror, and satisfied with the façade, he tiptoed out of his dressing room and leaning heavily on his cane, dragging himself past his unknowing fan-girls.
Lowell found it difficult not to sneer at the complete disregard his fans had for people they didn’t worship. Barely giving him half a glance, the girls practically pushed him away from them and out to safety. As soon as Lowell found himself up the stairs and past the Tantalus Headquarters, he ran out to Michael’s studio, almost tumbling down the stone steps to his friend’s abode.
“Michael!” Lowell shouted, tossing his cap off, uncaring the velvet was still pinned to the useless muslin. His powdery blue hair fell in waves about his shoulders, his eyes wide and searching. From around a corner, at the easel forever propped against the wall, a brunette turned his head, scowling.
“Lowell?” Michael asked flatly, dropping his paintbrush and crossing his arms. Lowell grinned wide and threw his arms around Michael’s neck.
“Michael, thank you so much for agreeing to help me again!” Lowell squealed, hugging Michael tightly. Not until Michael coughed sharply did the blue haired actor pull away. Michael was giving him a very disapproving look.
“Lowell, I can’t keep doing this. You run from your fame, but you wallow in it! You want attention, but you act like you don’t,” Michael turned back to his painting, shaking his head. “Why must you be so confusing?” The brunette grabbed a new paintbrush, gripping it like a weapon. Lowell frowned.
“You don’t understand…” The actor sighed dramatically, plopping himself in a hard, wooden chair, paint splattered, like most everything else in Michael’s home. Michael rolled his eyes, turning a disbelieving glance on his guest.
“Then why don’t you explain it, Cornelia?” Michael asked sarcastically. Lowell pouted, flipping his hair, indignant. Michael sighed, put down his brush and pulled up a chair next to Lowell. “I’m sorry, Lowell. Go ahead, tell me, what is it that I’m not understanding?” Michael asked sincerely. Lowell gave him a small, cheeky smile, but nodded.
“It’s very simple, my dear Michael,” Lowell began, placing a delicate hand on the painter’s arm. “I am swarmed, suffocated, with giggling fan girls. Now, honestly, as much as I love attention, and adore fans, I can’t stand all those brainless females!” He waved his hand dismissively, sitting back in his chair. Michael blinked, motioning for Lowell to continue. “That’s it, dear. It’s all those women! I swear if I have one more little girl beg me to kiss her, to marry her, well, I’m just going to move back to Treno and forget everything about acting!”
Michael sat silent for a moment, still trying to grasp at what the problem was exactly. Women? What was wrong with throngs of women throwing themselves at one’s feet? Especially when those feet belonged to you? Michael shook his head, leaning back.
“Don’t think I quite get what you’re getting at, Lowell. Your problem is…women?” Michael asked. Lowell nodded. “What is the problem with women?” Lowell blinked prettily for a moment before he snorted, tossing his head.
“I don’t like them, dear Michael. Women in general are snobs, didn’t you know? They smell, they fuss over pointless matters and if a man isn’t paying them all the attention in the world, why, their lives are over!” The blue haired actor scoffed, rolling his eyes. Michael still appeared quite confused.
“You don’t like women? But,” Michael started, then stopped. He took one good long look at Lowell, working a thought out in his head. The way Lowell sat, absently fussed over his nails, gods, the way the man walked! “You’re gay!” Michael shouted, half rising from his seat. Lowell raised his eyebrows.
“You’re only just figuring that out?” Lowell asked flatly. Michael did rise from his seat now, walking over to his canvas, turning around and walking back to Lowell. He opened his mouth a few times, though he still made no comment. Lowell laughed. “You do a wonderful impression of a fish, I hope you know, dear.” Michael winced a little at ‘dear’. Lowell noticed the wince and tried very hard not to frown.
“You aren’t…you know…” Michael asked half heartedly, motioning with his hands. As it became clear that he wasn’t exactly getting through to Lowell, he tried again. “You know…to me?” Lowell scowled, the expression alien on his usually pleasant countenance.
“What the hell are you asking, Michael? Are you asking if I’m attracted to you?” Lowell asked angrily, standing from his seat, glaring at the slightly taller painter. Michael blinked stupidly, falling a step backwards. “Would that be a problem, monsieur artiste?! Would it be too much for you if you were the only one holding my fragile heart while women beat down my door, scraping for a chance to touch it?!” Lowell shouted, balling his fists. Michael regained his balance, beginning his fish impression again. Lowell groaned, throwing his hands in the air. “You are positively hopeless!” Lowell sighed, shaking his head.
With not so much as a word, Lowell bent and picked up his ragged tarp disguise, quickly setting it in place to cover his telltale beauty. Stalking up the stairs to Michael’s door, he turned just once to glare down at the befuddled painter.
“Thank you for your help, again, Michael. I’ll try not to ask for it again in the future, as my mere presence seems to take your speech clean from your throat. Good day.” And with one dramatic swish of his paint-covered cloak, Lowell exited Michael’s studio.
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The evening air was chill against Lowell’s bared chest, but the actor refused to cover himself. The blue haired man lay out on his still made bed in his dressing room, the small round window above him open so he could watch the stars. He pouted up at the heavens, frowning at the memory of the day. Nothing but fangirl after fangirl beating down his door, and that horrid spectacle at Michael’s…Michael. What to do about that? Lowell knew he cared for Michael quite a bit, but the stern brunette would have none of that. Michael was too…normal? No, normal didn’t quite fit as a descriptor, but he certainly wasn’t interested, either. Lowell sighed dejectedly.
“Mr. Bridges?” A knock and voice at the door broke Lowell’s depressed mood. Lowell blinked, grabbing hesitantly for his nightshirt.
“Who is it?” Lowell asked, his voice slightly muffled as he pulled on his plain cotton top. Only another knock answered him. Lowell shrugged and opened his door, surprised out of his speech by the figure standing there. Michael, surprisingly sans paint on any visible part of him, stood before Lowell, his arms crossed. “Michael?” Lowell asked, his voice tinged with wonder.
“You left before you could give me a chance to answer you, you jerk!” Michael stated, pushing Lowell backwards, inviting himself in. It was Lowell’s turn to blink stupidly.
“Wha--?” Lowell started. Michael held up a hand.
“No, shut up. You get to listen now.” The brunette painter said calmly. Lowell nodded wordlessly, waiting for Michael to speak again. Michael smiled. “Good. Now, you asked if there was a problem with you feeling for me? Honestly? I don’t have a clue. I don’t really have admirers of my work, and as I usually don’t treat you very well, I would find it very hard to believe you would like me. If you want to know if I have a problem with you being gay, no, I don’t. I have a cousin in Dali who’s gay, it’s no big deal to me.” Michael gently pushed Lowell back onto his bed, sitting next to him. When neither spoke for some time after, Lowell coughed, looking expectantly at Michael.
“So…what does this mean?” Lowell asked. Michael shrugged.
“I don’t know. Do you like me?” Michael asked. Lowell grinned cheekily.
“A lot. Do you like me?” Lowell asked. Michael shrugged.
“A bit.” Lowell frowned. Michael laughed, wrapping an arm around Lowell’s shoulders. “More than a friend, anyway, if you want to try being with a grumpy painter.” Lowell squeaked happily and, wrapping his arms around Michael’s neck, gave him a deep, searing kiss.
The End
