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dethoratsTitle: Dinner For One, Breakfast For Two?
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1625
Sleep had not been forthcoming, probably the result of jet lag and leg cramps from sitting for ten hours in coach. Nathan had tossed and turned on the full-size bed cursing Sam and Europeans because his head was flush with the hard headboard and his feet were still hanging off the end of the mattress. The radio station’s grand prize really wasn’t all that grand but Nathan supposed that most metal heads probably wouldn’t have cared. Dudes into metal tended to be rough and ready, used to beer and crappy couches, not luxury and shit like that. Although maybe they should have been. There was nothing wrong with comfort so long as it was appropriately nasty looking. In any event, the metal station hadn’t sprung for the greatest hotel. It was better than a hostel or a hole in the wall, but it was very pared down.
The one star Residence Vauvillers didn’t even come with individual bathrooms. Nathan was stuck sharing two toilets, two sinks, and a shower stall with three other rooms and he’d already walked in on a chick in just her underwear when he first arrived. She’d cussed him in some language that wasn’t French or English and he’d put up his hands, muttering apologies and backing off. He really needed to piss and had almost resorted to finding a place out on the street when she finally came out. It had been still been raining, at four o’clock in the afternoon on Valentine’s Day, and Nathan had been torn between flopping onto the bed and going out. The radio station had arranged for a candlelight dinner at some restaurant on the Champs Élysées though, and since it was free, Nathan decided to go.
Dinner had been ridiculous. He’d found the restaurant okay, shambling down the Paris boulevards past happy couples with their bright umbrellas in his jeans and farm jacket, water soaking his hair and plastering it to his face, but apparently the radio station or its agent had forgotten to notify the venue that it was just going to be him. The trip Sam, by virtue of Nathan’s metal expertise, had won was intended for couples. But Nathan, although he’d had a girlfriend when the tickets had been handed over, was no longer part of a couple. Jolene had kicked him out in the middle of January - and maybe if he’d told her about the trip instead of waiting to surprise her he could have kept a roof over his head for a little longer – so he’d been living out of his truck, cheap motels and occasional nights with a hook-up or a buddy for a month.
At first Nathan had planned on skipping the trip but he had needed to get away, leave behind the wreckage of his life even if just for a little while. Jolene had given him the boot because, she said, he didn’t have any drive. It might have been more because she was tired of his ass, he’d seen her only two days after he’d left with some buzz-cut punk in a marine uniform, but it was true he had lost his way. His dream of metal domination wasn’t gone, though. In fact it had been coming back strong and fierce. He had four tapes’ worth of material and a notebook full of lyrics but he didn’t have a band. Nathan didn’t miss Primordial Assault. Those assholes weren’t worth it, could never be good enough to accompany him to the heights he aspired to, but he did miss fronting a band. The wailing guitars, the thumping bass, the rolling thunder of the drums, and above all the roar of the adoring crowd, he needed it. The power that came from fronting, leading the band and everyone listening, was like a drug and Nathan had been in withdrawal for eight months. It was time for the drought to come to an end. But he wasn’t sure how to proceed.
So he’d come to Paris, hoping to clear his head and maybe find some inspiration and NOT with even a tiny hopeless desire of running into the foreign blond guy he’d seen in Florida. He had a week’s worth of hotel, $400 bucks from the radio station, another $500 of his own just in case, and no ties. Nathan wasn’t sure what he intended to do, but he had figured he’d let the city dictate. After all, there were few things before the horrors of the twentieth century quite as brutal as the French Revolution and Nathan, despite never graduating from high school, had a fluent command of French. Osmosis or something, he’d just kind of absorbed the language but he was shit at writing and reading it although it was one of the few classes he’d successfully passed, albeit with Ds. Dinner had seemed like a decent place to start, since his stomach hadn’t been satisfied by airline peanuts, and there was a definite promise of booze, even though it would probably be the sissy sort, with his meal.
The maĭtre d’s eyes had widened in surprise when Nathan had stomped in, shaking water off like a dog. The restaurant was packed with women in fine evening wear and many men wore tuxedos. The large American stuck out like a worm in an apple and, as Nathan explained who he was in a mix of halting English and gutteral French, the pinched expression on the maĭtre d’s face had only worsened. At last, speaking in clipped, haughtily angry tones, he’d handed Nathan a black tie, clucking to himself when he had to come out from behind his station to tie it properly so that it rested limply and almost invisibly over the plain black of Nathan’s t-shirt. Then Nathan had been led to a small table back against the door leading into the kitchen. It had been noisy and dark in that corner, obviously the worst spot in the restaurant, but Nathan hadn’t complained. He’d felt all the eyes following him as he’d walked to his seat, and the less attention on him, the better.
There had been four forks, two knives and three spoons waiting for him, along with a pressed linen napkin that he’d tucked over the tie. He wouldn’t have put it past the place to make him pay for it if he stained it. After some haggling, Nathan had finally convinced the waiter that he could and WOULD be eating enough for two people, which was what the radio station had paid for, and that, yes, he fucking DID want the entire bottle of wine that had been promised. He had steak tartare, two servings, and an aged red that he chugged in such a manner that the sommelier was practically in tears. The food had been excellent but the raw horse meat didn’t agree with him and Nathan had ended up monopolizing his shared bathroom for half an hour while he puked. That had been enough to send him to bed, his Paris trip off to an inauspicious start, but he had only restlessly tossed and turned throughout the endless night.
He must have slept finally, though, for it was watery light coming through his half-open curtains to crawl over his face that woke him. Nathan had a raging headache and a complaining stomach and he wasn’t sure if it was because his gut was empty or if it was still more tartare plaguing him. He spent ten minutes hovering over the toilet but other than a few dry heaves, his stomach was empty. A quick shower and rinse of his mouth followed before he headed into the hotel lobby. The included continental breakfast was already over – cheap bastards only ran it between seven and nine – and Nathan ended up wandering out into the street in search of food.
Paris that morning had seemed like an abandoned city that morning, with almost no one around braving the misty rain. A few cars sputtered through the puddles but all the store fronts were locked and dark and Nathan didn’t meet anyone as he walked. All he wanted was some coffee, something hot and strong, and maybe one of those moon-shaped bread things that were so popular in France but he ended up going the equivalent of six blocks before he finally found something. A thin, mousy guy all in black with a little white apron around his waist had been struggling with a gaily striped umbrella and Nathan watched for a while, finally shoving him aside and wrenching the stubborn canvas into place himself. The waiter had squeaked out his thanks and had nodded frantically when Nathan asked if the café was open.
He’d plopped down right then and there, not caring as his jeans absorbed the water left on the wrought-iron chair since at least the umbrella was now keeping his face dry, and ordered his coffee. And it was then, as the skinny French waiter scuttled off to fetch his order, that he noticed the other figure. Only the second human being he’d seen outside that morning, this one was definitely weird. A long tangled fall of bright blond hair, skinny legs in black jeans, and a black leather duster, and Nathan got a strange tight feeling in his chest as he scanned up and up and up some more. The tall blond, hair flattened to the shape of his skull by the now-steady fall of rain, had bright blue eyes, a patrician nose, and a pair of lush lips that were strangely feminine, especially as they were now parted in stunned surprise. Nathan shoved back his chair, iron scraping and throwing up small sparks against the cobblestones, and pointed a finger at the familiar figure.
“You!”
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1625
Sleep had not been forthcoming, probably the result of jet lag and leg cramps from sitting for ten hours in coach. Nathan had tossed and turned on the full-size bed cursing Sam and Europeans because his head was flush with the hard headboard and his feet were still hanging off the end of the mattress. The radio station’s grand prize really wasn’t all that grand but Nathan supposed that most metal heads probably wouldn’t have cared. Dudes into metal tended to be rough and ready, used to beer and crappy couches, not luxury and shit like that. Although maybe they should have been. There was nothing wrong with comfort so long as it was appropriately nasty looking. In any event, the metal station hadn’t sprung for the greatest hotel. It was better than a hostel or a hole in the wall, but it was very pared down.
The one star Residence Vauvillers didn’t even come with individual bathrooms. Nathan was stuck sharing two toilets, two sinks, and a shower stall with three other rooms and he’d already walked in on a chick in just her underwear when he first arrived. She’d cussed him in some language that wasn’t French or English and he’d put up his hands, muttering apologies and backing off. He really needed to piss and had almost resorted to finding a place out on the street when she finally came out. It had been still been raining, at four o’clock in the afternoon on Valentine’s Day, and Nathan had been torn between flopping onto the bed and going out. The radio station had arranged for a candlelight dinner at some restaurant on the Champs Élysées though, and since it was free, Nathan decided to go.
Dinner had been ridiculous. He’d found the restaurant okay, shambling down the Paris boulevards past happy couples with their bright umbrellas in his jeans and farm jacket, water soaking his hair and plastering it to his face, but apparently the radio station or its agent had forgotten to notify the venue that it was just going to be him. The trip Sam, by virtue of Nathan’s metal expertise, had won was intended for couples. But Nathan, although he’d had a girlfriend when the tickets had been handed over, was no longer part of a couple. Jolene had kicked him out in the middle of January - and maybe if he’d told her about the trip instead of waiting to surprise her he could have kept a roof over his head for a little longer – so he’d been living out of his truck, cheap motels and occasional nights with a hook-up or a buddy for a month.
At first Nathan had planned on skipping the trip but he had needed to get away, leave behind the wreckage of his life even if just for a little while. Jolene had given him the boot because, she said, he didn’t have any drive. It might have been more because she was tired of his ass, he’d seen her only two days after he’d left with some buzz-cut punk in a marine uniform, but it was true he had lost his way. His dream of metal domination wasn’t gone, though. In fact it had been coming back strong and fierce. He had four tapes’ worth of material and a notebook full of lyrics but he didn’t have a band. Nathan didn’t miss Primordial Assault. Those assholes weren’t worth it, could never be good enough to accompany him to the heights he aspired to, but he did miss fronting a band. The wailing guitars, the thumping bass, the rolling thunder of the drums, and above all the roar of the adoring crowd, he needed it. The power that came from fronting, leading the band and everyone listening, was like a drug and Nathan had been in withdrawal for eight months. It was time for the drought to come to an end. But he wasn’t sure how to proceed.
So he’d come to Paris, hoping to clear his head and maybe find some inspiration and NOT with even a tiny hopeless desire of running into the foreign blond guy he’d seen in Florida. He had a week’s worth of hotel, $400 bucks from the radio station, another $500 of his own just in case, and no ties. Nathan wasn’t sure what he intended to do, but he had figured he’d let the city dictate. After all, there were few things before the horrors of the twentieth century quite as brutal as the French Revolution and Nathan, despite never graduating from high school, had a fluent command of French. Osmosis or something, he’d just kind of absorbed the language but he was shit at writing and reading it although it was one of the few classes he’d successfully passed, albeit with Ds. Dinner had seemed like a decent place to start, since his stomach hadn’t been satisfied by airline peanuts, and there was a definite promise of booze, even though it would probably be the sissy sort, with his meal.
The maĭtre d’s eyes had widened in surprise when Nathan had stomped in, shaking water off like a dog. The restaurant was packed with women in fine evening wear and many men wore tuxedos. The large American stuck out like a worm in an apple and, as Nathan explained who he was in a mix of halting English and gutteral French, the pinched expression on the maĭtre d’s face had only worsened. At last, speaking in clipped, haughtily angry tones, he’d handed Nathan a black tie, clucking to himself when he had to come out from behind his station to tie it properly so that it rested limply and almost invisibly over the plain black of Nathan’s t-shirt. Then Nathan had been led to a small table back against the door leading into the kitchen. It had been noisy and dark in that corner, obviously the worst spot in the restaurant, but Nathan hadn’t complained. He’d felt all the eyes following him as he’d walked to his seat, and the less attention on him, the better.
There had been four forks, two knives and three spoons waiting for him, along with a pressed linen napkin that he’d tucked over the tie. He wouldn’t have put it past the place to make him pay for it if he stained it. After some haggling, Nathan had finally convinced the waiter that he could and WOULD be eating enough for two people, which was what the radio station had paid for, and that, yes, he fucking DID want the entire bottle of wine that had been promised. He had steak tartare, two servings, and an aged red that he chugged in such a manner that the sommelier was practically in tears. The food had been excellent but the raw horse meat didn’t agree with him and Nathan had ended up monopolizing his shared bathroom for half an hour while he puked. That had been enough to send him to bed, his Paris trip off to an inauspicious start, but he had only restlessly tossed and turned throughout the endless night.
He must have slept finally, though, for it was watery light coming through his half-open curtains to crawl over his face that woke him. Nathan had a raging headache and a complaining stomach and he wasn’t sure if it was because his gut was empty or if it was still more tartare plaguing him. He spent ten minutes hovering over the toilet but other than a few dry heaves, his stomach was empty. A quick shower and rinse of his mouth followed before he headed into the hotel lobby. The included continental breakfast was already over – cheap bastards only ran it between seven and nine – and Nathan ended up wandering out into the street in search of food.
Paris that morning had seemed like an abandoned city that morning, with almost no one around braving the misty rain. A few cars sputtered through the puddles but all the store fronts were locked and dark and Nathan didn’t meet anyone as he walked. All he wanted was some coffee, something hot and strong, and maybe one of those moon-shaped bread things that were so popular in France but he ended up going the equivalent of six blocks before he finally found something. A thin, mousy guy all in black with a little white apron around his waist had been struggling with a gaily striped umbrella and Nathan watched for a while, finally shoving him aside and wrenching the stubborn canvas into place himself. The waiter had squeaked out his thanks and had nodded frantically when Nathan asked if the café was open.
He’d plopped down right then and there, not caring as his jeans absorbed the water left on the wrought-iron chair since at least the umbrella was now keeping his face dry, and ordered his coffee. And it was then, as the skinny French waiter scuttled off to fetch his order, that he noticed the other figure. Only the second human being he’d seen outside that morning, this one was definitely weird. A long tangled fall of bright blond hair, skinny legs in black jeans, and a black leather duster, and Nathan got a strange tight feeling in his chest as he scanned up and up and up some more. The tall blond, hair flattened to the shape of his skull by the now-steady fall of rain, had bright blue eyes, a patrician nose, and a pair of lush lips that were strangely feminine, especially as they were now parted in stunned surprise. Nathan shoved back his chair, iron scraping and throwing up small sparks against the cobblestones, and pointed a finger at the familiar figure.
“You!”
