"I think Imma do a lil strut."
"No."
"Or..." You wiggled your eyebrows, "Yes."
"Definitely not happening."
"A gay lil strut down the stage in between the bridge and chorus of Kiss Cam."
"That song is one of your gayest. Stop trying to get people mad on Twitter."
You let out a deep sigh, blowing a raspberry near the end before you pouted. You were at rehearsals for the show tonight and the band was adjusting their equipment, sound checks and all that, while you and your choreographer went over the basics – you weren't much of a dancer, but you had a few steps here and there to give the show more of a moving flow.
"How about..." You squinted, eyeing them as they stood there frustrated, and the moment went on way too long, "Yeah, I got nothing. I want to prance."
"Too," They spoke lowly, getting closer, and their voice was both dangerous and arousing – you know what you mean, "Fucking," They were in your face now, "Bad."
"Oi!" Bucky's voice came from the side of the stage and you both snapped your attentions to him as he hopped up on it while balancing a hot dog in his one hand – an impressive sight, really, "Back off!" He shouted, coming up to you both quickly and your choreographer looked confused and scared, so they did what he said, but then he was standing in front of you with a hand on your shoulder, "You alright, boss?"
You tried not to laugh, you really did, and he looked so relieved when you were smiling. Then he offered you a bite and you snorted a laugh.
"Thanks, Buck, but I'm okay."
"Had a feeling," He shrugged, "But Romanoff teased me about not doing my job when you two started arguing, so."
He was suddenly more worried about balancing his toppings in between the sides of the bun that hugged the dog and you subtly peeked over his shoulder – more to the side because dude is massive – to see a certain redhead smirking at the whole scene.
"These your new bodyguards, Stark?" Selene teased, coming up to your side and hip checking you just to grab your attention away from the redhead who looked to be silently challenging you right now.
"What? Oh, yeah," You smiled, gesturing to Bucky, "This is Barnes," And then you pointed over to Natasha, "And that's Romanoff. Their first names escape me."
Bucky rolled his eyes, offering his hand to Selene before everyone else came over to introduce themselves, "Call me Bucky."
"Oh, isn't this great," Wanda shot you a look and you rolled your eyes with a smile as she continued, knowing what was coming, "Now, maybe the world will move on from shipping you with Leo and pair you with this hunk of bodyguard."
Bucky shook his head, not looking put off, more amused, and then Atlas was saying something about the set list that drew your attention, the others chatting about different things.
"Johnny pulled it."
"What do you mean?" You furrowed your eyebrows, "It's already on the album, what's the difference if I perform it? They've heard it."
"But you always change the lyrics when it's live."
"Because he made me change them for the record – I'm simply singing them live how I wrote it! It's my song."
"But you can't be that surprised it was scrapped with how many changes to pronouns you make – and what's with that line about lipstick? Guys generally don't wear it and they don't want to hear about the stains left in your hotel rooms."
You scoffed, "Wow, you're sounding a lot like Johnny right now."
"Because I'm quoting him," They told you, their tone apologetic, "Thought it'd be easier to hear it from me than him."
You sighed, raising your eyebrows, and then nodding a few times before walking off. You got off the stage and grabbed a water bottle off the cart, ignoring the small, assigned plate for your lunch – it honestly looked so pathetic and bland, before heading towards your dressing room.
You were so grateful and lucky and blessed to be where you were, doing what you love, and having people out there that support you. You knew that and you tried to never take it for granted. You wouldn't be where you were without your fans, and you loved them like your family. Whenever you meet them, it feels like seeing old friends again, and it's been easy to recognize a good amount after a few years. But there are moments where you wish it would all be taken away. The life you lead is a lonely one.
It's not a constant feeling, you'd regret it if you even took a step towards following through, but once in a while you wanted to just vanish. Completely disappear off the public map, donate half your wealth and then use the rest to live off of in some cottage by a river. You'd never stop writing, you knew that wouldn't be possible, but maybe it'd just turn into poetry that you kept in your journals on a shelf. You'd take out your acoustic guitar, hum a few bars, and let the words live on your tongue. Just cherish and sit with the memories of everything you could and couldn't do while in the spotlight, the love shared between you, the fans, and your band. Maybe get a dog.
Money can't always buy your freedom.
It was a dark thought that swirled around your noggin more often these days because of your writing and the maturity it was taking on. In the beginning, you sang about growing up, partying, and making the most of life while you can. It was uplifting, something to dance to, and overall, just fun. But these days, it was mostly hidden messages about heartbreak, love that you can't reach but it's so close you can taste it, and honestly, being controlled. But it's so subtle that most people don't even notice or interpret it that way. And the songs are still mostly upbeat, and the music feels like it hides the lyrics with how bright and colorful it is.
"You alright?"
The voice was tight, almost like they didn't want to ask, and you looked up from where you were bent forward, sitting on the stool next to the sink, to see Natasha in the doorway, looking awfully uncomfortable.
"Yeah," You partially lied, "Why wouldn't I be?"
She hesitated, studying you for a moment, before, "Can I ask you something?"
"The answer is no," You smirked, "You're not allowed to carry a gun."
She looked offended, like she assumed she could, and then she shook her head slightly, "No, not that. Even though we should probably talk about that later."
You chuckled, "Alright, what's up, then?"
"Why do you take their shit?"
"Who?" You furrowed your eyebrows, "Altas? They don't give me shit, I mean, they're the middle person sometimes or the messenger, but I love them. I've known them for nearly ten years, trust me, they take my shit if anything."
"Not talking about Atlas – not really," She stepped into the room, and you sat up straighter, "I'm talking about your team and just...everyone."
You took a deep breath, remembering who you were talking to, and it was almost a defense mechanism at this point because besides your family, there were very few people you could fully trust, "I'm about to perform in front of over twenty-thousand people to kick off the South American leg of tour and nobody who works for me is rooting for my failure, so I think I'm-"
"Of course, they're not hoping you fail, they don't get paid if people don't buy tickets to come see you."
"Just like you." Your words had more bite than you intended, and the redhead looked hurt for half of a second before she was emotionless again.
"Fine," She went to leave, "Keep getting stepped on and used, then."
And then she was gone.
And you were alone again.
