Heroes (Bolan/Bowie)

David was writing.

    He wasn't actually sure what he was writing yet. It could have been a song, or a poem, or even a story if the feeling arose. It had no tell; the lack of a definitive format appealed to him. It gave him tremendous power: right now, he was the sole creator of something. He was the father of these words, this theme. That idea on the second line? That was his. The anger in that sentence down there? His too.

    What's more, the piece was at the deciding point, the place where it became something. And David was the artisan of its transformation. He was the Michelangelo, the Da Vinci, the Almighty. He was the wielder of the paintbrush (or a shitty Biro, in this case) that would beautify this thing, make it into whatever he felt it should be. He was ready to do so, pen poised on the page.

    And of course, that was when the phone rang.

    David tried to ignore it, but the noise was made to be listened to: a cacophonous, incessant bell that set his teeth on edge with each round of dinging. Slamming the pen down on the table, a mental to be continued whispered in his head, he stormed into the hallway, muttering this and that about whoever it was on the other end sticking the phone somewhere inappropriate and painful.

    "This better be bloody good," he spat into the receiver.

    "Alright, alright, I'll hang up then!" said a soft, lilting voice on the other end. A voice that made David smile a little despite his crabbiness. He chewed the side of his cheek to prevent it from growing and forced a scowl on to his face. "I was writing, Marc," he sighed.

    Marc giggled down the line. "That's your job. You can do that another time, Davy."

    "That was not the point I was trying to make here, and if that's your attitude to my work ethic then I'm off," David snapped, but Marc shushed him with soothing little hums. "Calm down, mate, I didn't say anything about your fucking 'work ethic'. I just wanted to invite you down to the studio and help me script, if that's not too drastic?"

    David twirled the phone wire around his little finger, then stopped because he felt like some dewy-eyes schoolgirl. He felt stupid. It was pretty stupid, to be honest, because he was reminded all too often of Marc's frustratingly platonic feelings for him. He was impossibly, rigidly straight, and David knew it.

    He couldn't help hoping, though.

    "Still there?" Marc was asking. David realised he'd been silent for a few moments and coughed before stammering, "Yeah, y-yeah sure."

    "'Yeah' to what? That you're still there or that you'll come?"

    David laughed brokenly, amending his words. "'Yeah' to them – I mean, to both of them, I suppose..."

    Marc exclaimed happily, his little whoop made crackly by the speakers but still recognisably joyful. "Okay, so I'll see you in about a half-hour?"

    "Sure. Ta."

    "See you in a while."

    David hung up first, placing the phone carefully back down on its stand. It would be nice to hang out with Marc; they hadn't seen each other for a few months, what with David's touring and Marc's busy TV show schedule. They were a bad pairing, it had to be said: trouble seemed to seek the two out anyway when they were apart, but together their combined mischief appeared in frankly dangerous quantities.

    David climbed the stairs to his room. Much of his clothing had already been packed for his move to Berlin in just a couple of weeks, but he knew a few nice shirts were still hanging in the wardrobe — a result of his increasingly worsening procrastination. He opened the door and crossed over to his closet, rifling through the various items before settling on a powder-blue, silky number that hung off his slender shoulders in a way that accentuated his slight build and slimness. After changing, he grabbed a wad of cash from his drawer and slung his favourite satchel over his arm. He went back downstairs to the grand piano and threw his writing and pen into the bag, then closed the grand with care and locked it. Doing the same to his front door once he'd left, he scanned the busy road and spotted one of the black taxis that were omnipresent in London. Flagging it down, he told the driver where he was going and settled in the back.