They can never love! (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} _peapod) wrote,@ 2005-06-07 00:55:00 |
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draco/(eminem) part 7
just over a thousand words and almost a week overdue.
They fly to LAX the following morning. Marshall rides on the wing of the plane (he doesn’t need to. He’s bound to Draco, he says, so wherever Draco goes, Marshall would end up too. Death is like a spell, he says, but Draco knows he doesn’t really understand what a spell is). They hit a patch of turbulence somewhere in the mid-Atlantic, and Marshall presses his face against the outside of the window and leers in at the passengers. None of them seem to notice, but Ramone shivers and sinks further into his oversized sweater.
Then everything is a mess of airports and limousines and another hotel room, every nerve in Draco’s body screaming with jetlag and foreignness. Marshall finds a stack of CDs in his suitcase and plays Frisbee with one until Draco relents and puts it on. More rap music, he’s on overload and god he’d kill for some soothing Bach or even Tchaikovsky.
He tells Marshall this. Marshall is suitably unimpressed.
“Your taste in music fuckin’ sucks, man. Like, yo, Elton John? What the fuck is wrong wit’ you?”
Draco is too tired to argue. And besides, he really does like Elton John.
“Shut up. I’m going to sleep. Can you turn the music off, please?”
Marshall grumbles but does as he’s told, and Draco falls asleep to the imaginary strains of “Hold Me Closer, Harry Potter” drifting through his head.
He wakes up feeling vaguely nauseated.
--
Harry flies Economy Class to LA, and ends up sitting next to a man with worse body odour than Dudley. Hermione drove him to the airport wreathed in smiles, the lease to Harry’s new flat safely in the glove compartment.
“Have fun, Harry!” she said as she hugged him goodbye.
“Uh,” said Harry eloquently.
--
Elton John’s glasses are not nearly ostentatious enough for Draco’s tastes. He was expecting hearts and glitter, at the very least.
“So, Marshall,” Elton greets him. It takes Draco a few seconds before he realises Elton is talking to him. The real Marshall, ghost Marshall, is sitting moodily at the front of the stage. Every so often he casts disparaging looks in Draco’s direction.
“ – Really an honour to be working with you.”
“Um, thank you,” Draco manages to respond, wondering if ‘Mr John’ is a proper form of address, or if he should just go with ‘Sir Elton’.
“LA is beautiful at this time of year. What do you think of the city, Marshall?”
Draco considers this. “It’s okay. Violent, though. I mean, it’s like one shot, two shots, all I hear is gun shots, you know?”
Marshall’s head spins round (literally, like the girl in that Muggle film Draco saw once, which gave him nightmares for three weeks and forced him to sleep in Zabini’s bed for reassurance), and he makes frantic writing motions.
“Yo, dog, I like that. Write it down, man.”
“I don’t have a pen!”
Sir Elton looks bemused. “I beg your pardon?”
“Um, I was talking to myself.” Draco winces inwardly. Way to make a good impression.
“Not to worry. So, are we ready to start rehearsing?”
Enormous bollocks. Draco smiles brightly. “Sure thing!”
--
American wizards don’t really know who The Boy Who Lived is, which makes a nice change. On hearing Harry’s “cute British accent”, the girl on the till in McDonalds asked him if he knew Robbie Williams, which he rather sadly denied. Other than that, he finds himself completely anonymous, and also in danger of being mugged several times.
Harry meanders down a street, ignoring the crowds of people who have to jump out of his way, and ends up standing in front of a neon-decorated club with a menacing bouncer on the door.
“ID?” he snarls. He must be wearing at least twelve gold rings.
“Oh, I’m not coming in,” Harry doesn’t say. After all, it isn’t like he has much else to do. His lack of Muggle identification could be a problem, but he’s all right at Transfiguration and a speedy bit of work with a London bus ticket does well enough to fool the bouncer. McGonagall would be proud.
Inside, the club is foggy with dry ice. It reeks of sweat and spilled beer. Harry buys himself a drink with an umbrella in it and squints through the smoke at the tables snaking round the edge of the room. A Mexican girl dances by herself in the middle of the floor, not quite in time with the bass beat that thunders from the speakers. The tables are nearly all occupied, and none of the occupants look like they’d care for company. In the corner, a couple are practically having sex, like get a room, as Ron would say. Would have said. At the next table, a very thin man is talking animatedly on a mobile phone, gesticulating wildly as though whoever he’s speaking to can see him. And on the next table, there are two bored-looking fat men and – Harry drops his glass. The paper umbrella somersaults gracefully through the air and lands point down between his feet.
--
Marshall disappears halfway through the afternoon rehearsal, claiming he’s going to puke and ectoplasmic vomit ain’t the kind of stain a spray of Shout gets rid of. He isn’t there that evening when Jermaine and Big-D drag Draco out to a club “’Cause you actin’ crazy man, you need to chill out some,”, although Draco’s pretty sure he hears sniggering from under the bed at that point.
Clubbing has never been Draco’s thing, really. Perhaps there are advantages to the sleazy anonymity of a nightclub, but he doesn’t need the cover of darkness to get laid and he’s pretty sure Marshall doesn’t have too many problems in that area either. Draco slouches at a table with Marshall’s red Nike Air hat pulled low over his eyes and pretends to be too drunk to make conversation. Ramone is making more phone calls (that bloody telephone is glued to his ear, honestly) and Jermaine and Big-D are more or less ignoring him.
There are some fit girls here, as far as Draco can tell through the dry ice and cigarette fog, and he toys with the idea of calling one of them over, just for the hell of it. If he’s going to be mistaken for a rap superstar, he should take advantage of the benefits that confers, right? His eyes flit over the girl dancing on her own and clearly on some sort of drugs, and fall on. Oh, shit.
“Potter!”
The word comes out of Draco’s mouth before he can stop himself. Potter is blinking incredulously at him through his stupid round glasses. Big-D turns and gives Draco a funny look.
“Yo, Em, you know that dog?”
Draco clutches desperately at straws.
“We’re, um. We’re from the same hood?”
“No you ain’t. I grew up on Eight Mile same as you, motherfucker, and I ain’t never seen his ass before now.”
Before Draco has a chance to think up some explanation, a shadow falls over his face. He pushes the peak of his cap back and tries to glare at Potter, who looks like he might fall over at any second. Then he does his best Marshall impression.
“Yo, ‘sup?”
Potter gives him a this-is-messed-up-and-I-think-somebody-s
“Malfoy?”
Too late, Draco realises the advantages of never saying anything again ever. Damn.
just over a thousand words and almost a week overdue.
They fly to LAX the following morning. Marshall rides on the wing of the plane (he doesn’t need to. He’s bound to Draco, he says, so wherever Draco goes, Marshall would end up too. Death is like a spell, he says, but Draco knows he doesn’t really understand what a spell is). They hit a patch of turbulence somewhere in the mid-Atlantic, and Marshall presses his face against the outside of the window and leers in at the passengers. None of them seem to notice, but Ramone shivers and sinks further into his oversized sweater.
Then everything is a mess of airports and limousines and another hotel room, every nerve in Draco’s body screaming with jetlag and foreignness. Marshall finds a stack of CDs in his suitcase and plays Frisbee with one until Draco relents and puts it on. More rap music, he’s on overload and god he’d kill for some soothing Bach or even Tchaikovsky.
He tells Marshall this. Marshall is suitably unimpressed.
“Your taste in music fuckin’ sucks, man. Like, yo, Elton John? What the fuck is wrong wit’ you?”
Draco is too tired to argue. And besides, he really does like Elton John.
“Shut up. I’m going to sleep. Can you turn the music off, please?”
Marshall grumbles but does as he’s told, and Draco falls asleep to the imaginary strains of “Hold Me Closer, Harry Potter” drifting through his head.
He wakes up feeling vaguely nauseated.
--
Harry flies Economy Class to LA, and ends up sitting next to a man with worse body odour than Dudley. Hermione drove him to the airport wreathed in smiles, the lease to Harry’s new flat safely in the glove compartment.
“Have fun, Harry!” she said as she hugged him goodbye.
“Uh,” said Harry eloquently.
--
Elton John’s glasses are not nearly ostentatious enough for Draco’s tastes. He was expecting hearts and glitter, at the very least.
“So, Marshall,” Elton greets him. It takes Draco a few seconds before he realises Elton is talking to him. The real Marshall, ghost Marshall, is sitting moodily at the front of the stage. Every so often he casts disparaging looks in Draco’s direction.
“ – Really an honour to be working with you.”
“Um, thank you,” Draco manages to respond, wondering if ‘Mr John’ is a proper form of address, or if he should just go with ‘Sir Elton’.
“LA is beautiful at this time of year. What do you think of the city, Marshall?”
Draco considers this. “It’s okay. Violent, though. I mean, it’s like one shot, two shots, all I hear is gun shots, you know?”
Marshall’s head spins round (literally, like the girl in that Muggle film Draco saw once, which gave him nightmares for three weeks and forced him to sleep in Zabini’s bed for reassurance), and he makes frantic writing motions.
“Yo, dog, I like that. Write it down, man.”
“I don’t have a pen!”
Sir Elton looks bemused. “I beg your pardon?”
“Um, I was talking to myself.” Draco winces inwardly. Way to make a good impression.
“Not to worry. So, are we ready to start rehearsing?”
Enormous bollocks. Draco smiles brightly. “Sure thing!”
--
American wizards don’t really know who The Boy Who Lived is, which makes a nice change. On hearing Harry’s “cute British accent”, the girl on the till in McDonalds asked him if he knew Robbie Williams, which he rather sadly denied. Other than that, he finds himself completely anonymous, and also in danger of being mugged several times.
Harry meanders down a street, ignoring the crowds of people who have to jump out of his way, and ends up standing in front of a neon-decorated club with a menacing bouncer on the door.
“ID?” he snarls. He must be wearing at least twelve gold rings.
“Oh, I’m not coming in,” Harry doesn’t say. After all, it isn’t like he has much else to do. His lack of Muggle identification could be a problem, but he’s all right at Transfiguration and a speedy bit of work with a London bus ticket does well enough to fool the bouncer. McGonagall would be proud.
Inside, the club is foggy with dry ice. It reeks of sweat and spilled beer. Harry buys himself a drink with an umbrella in it and squints through the smoke at the tables snaking round the edge of the room. A Mexican girl dances by herself in the middle of the floor, not quite in time with the bass beat that thunders from the speakers. The tables are nearly all occupied, and none of the occupants look like they’d care for company. In the corner, a couple are practically having sex, like get a room, as Ron would say. Would have said. At the next table, a very thin man is talking animatedly on a mobile phone, gesticulating wildly as though whoever he’s speaking to can see him. And on the next table, there are two bored-looking fat men and – Harry drops his glass. The paper umbrella somersaults gracefully through the air and lands point down between his feet.
--
Marshall disappears halfway through the afternoon rehearsal, claiming he’s going to puke and ectoplasmic vomit ain’t the kind of stain a spray of Shout gets rid of. He isn’t there that evening when Jermaine and Big-D drag Draco out to a club “’Cause you actin’ crazy man, you need to chill out some,”, although Draco’s pretty sure he hears sniggering from under the bed at that point.
Clubbing has never been Draco’s thing, really. Perhaps there are advantages to the sleazy anonymity of a nightclub, but he doesn’t need the cover of darkness to get laid and he’s pretty sure Marshall doesn’t have too many problems in that area either. Draco slouches at a table with Marshall’s red Nike Air hat pulled low over his eyes and pretends to be too drunk to make conversation. Ramone is making more phone calls (that bloody telephone is glued to his ear, honestly) and Jermaine and Big-D are more or less ignoring him.
There are some fit girls here, as far as Draco can tell through the dry ice and cigarette fog, and he toys with the idea of calling one of them over, just for the hell of it. If he’s going to be mistaken for a rap superstar, he should take advantage of the benefits that confers, right? His eyes flit over the girl dancing on her own and clearly on some sort of drugs, and fall on. Oh, shit.
“Potter!”
The word comes out of Draco’s mouth before he can stop himself. Potter is blinking incredulously at him through his stupid round glasses. Big-D turns and gives Draco a funny look.
“Yo, Em, you know that dog?”
Draco clutches desperately at straws.
“We’re, um. We’re from the same hood?”
“No you ain’t. I grew up on Eight Mile same as you, motherfucker, and I ain’t never seen his ass before now.”
Before Draco has a chance to think up some explanation, a shadow falls over his face. He pushes the peak of his cap back and tries to glare at Potter, who looks like he might fall over at any second. Then he does his best Marshall impression.
“Yo, ‘sup?”
Potter gives him a this-is-messed-up-and-I-think-somebody-s
“Malfoy?”
Too late, Draco realises the advantages of never saying anything again ever. Damn.
