Nowadays
You remember the first night you performed together: lights, music, clapping hands of adoring fans. They fucking loved you, and it felt more exhilarating than anything you'd imagined. A rush like fire through your veins; a fantastic haze that even she got caught up in -- because, for all her icy nonchalance, even Velma Kelly craves the spotlight.
She needs it just as much as you do.
She'd kissed you backstage, hard and messy, her hand inching up your leg. You didn't protest; sex is just as fake and impersonal as showbiz. You didn't need to love her to fuck her, and you knew she shared that philosophy.
It all felt like a performance: undressing before her, pressing your flesh together, biting, touching, kissing like you wanted to steal each other's breath. You heard the delighted gasps of an enthralled audience in her full-throated moans, and you left the door open a little -- everything's better when someone might be watching.
It kept happening like that night after night, performance after performance. You wanted it that way. You didn't hate her; you never really did. You just resented her distaste for you.
"There's a difference," she insists, holding up your costumes side by side.
"You're crazy," you reply. "They're the same."
She throws them both on the floor. "Yours is nicer."
Deep down, you know they're both awful. You even recognize the reason for their lack of beauty: smaller crowds mean dwindling funds. You'll probably be gone in a week, replaced by Billy's newest acquitted clients. But you won't say that aloud; you're nothing without your illusions, and you'd be damned if you let yourself comment on the reality of the situation.
All the while she stares at you expectantly, waiting for a fight you're too weary to have.
"Maybe," you say with a shrug.
"I'm talking to George," she says, walking off in a huff.
She still has her standards, even when she's living in dirt. You've never known what's good for you, even back when your name in lights still meant something.
You go on stage that night with sub par outfits; doesn't really matter, though, since you're playing to a half-empty house. But you still give it all you have, even as you watch people file out before you're near finished.
The show is what you live for; it must go on.
When it's over, polite clapping replaces your recollections of wild applause. Both of you bow and smile, waiting for the flowers that will never be thrown again.
In your dressing room, she kisses you. The fire's almost gone out, but you kiss her back anyway.
You paw her through threadbare fabric, think of the time when she would've pushed your hands away. But you're on her level now.
Or, more accurately, she's on yours.
Her tongue pushes into your mouth as her hands slide up to cup your breasts. You straddle her thigh, the pressure sending a slight chill up your spine.
This still feels good, but not great, and you think you might be starting to officially hate her. After all, you wouldn't be here if it weren't for her. No you wouldn't.
You cup her face, fingers sliding down to her neck. You squeeze slightly -- enough to make her weary, but not enough to cause her to pull away. You wonder what would happen if you pressed a little harder, pressed until her body lost all breath. Would your name be on the front page again? Would you be able to feign the same innocent girl routine without anyone catching on?
Would you even care about your fate?
"What the hell are you doing?" she snaps, pushing you away.
"Nothing," you reply, letting your hands fall to your sides. You study the faint marks on her neck; you'd be satisfied by this way of branding her if you didn't know that they'd fade away before tomorrow's show. "Nothing," you repeat. You kiss her again. You don't wait for her to respond before you slide your hands to the back of her costume, unzipping her with a motion that's becoming more and more like second nature.
You swear that she calls you crazy under her breath, but that might just be a hallucination. Reality was never all that clear to you.
Sequins fall off the fabric as you slide it off her body; the same thing happens to you. The bits of razzle-dazzle glimmer on the sullied floor, only to be covered by her foot as she reclines. On the next kiss, you bite her lip. She doesn't retreat; this is the kind of modest pain she can respond to. The kind of pain she can give back. The kind of pain she gives better than anyone else can.
You pull back slightly, sliding your tongue against your bruised bottom lip. There's no blood; you wonder what it means that you'd prefer it if there were.
You run your mouth against her skin, brushing over the bruises, creating new ones. When your lips are on her thigh, you slip your hand between her legs. You do all the right things, but her signs of pleasure are tempered by her love of indifference. But she still likes it, this you know.
You move faster, quickening her moans. Then, you hear it: yawns, heckles, footsteps of exiting patrons. You close your eyes, bite down on the inside of her thigh. She screams, shudders, stretches out like a lounging queen. You just blink, start imagining how gorgeous you must have looked on stage together those first packed performances.
You pull her onto the floor, draw her into a forceful kiss. She rubs a thumb against the inside of your thigh, digs fingers into your side. And you think of: fame, fortune, applause, the humble love of people you don't know what you really are, knowing that things can't get any better. You think of your fleeting moments in the sun. You think of how you used to dream of the future instead of the past.
You think of everything but now.