Frans King is a modern day popstar who lives his life on the outside as if everything were perfect. But, inside, he faces the tumult of an emotional typhoon.
His father and his record company force him to live a faux life in order to support a good...
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"and raise your voice every single time they try and shut your mouth." - My Chemical Romance
***
Revenge, it tasted bitter and made him feel anxious. He was going to drag them all down.
He made no eye contact with anyone as he marched down the hallway that was decorated with colorful fake flowers and paintings that probably costed fortune. He heard some people gasp, but he payed them no mind.
He was Frans, he was a singer, and everyone knew him. Let them have a good look at him if they as much as please. That's probably first and the last time they'll see him in person.
He followed Oswald confidently, ignoring nervous Lance as the man always kept a careful eye on him, like he was waiting for Frans to run out of the door and never return.
Frans wasn't entirely sure where he was, but then again, had he ever known of his destination or why he was wherever he ended up at?
Oswald pushed the door open as Frans stepped in. No surprise, Timothy waited him there, holding a phone in one hand and a cup of coffee in another.
The room was filled with silence when the door clicked shut behind him. Timothy turned his back on Frans as he gazed outside the window down on the buzzing street.
Frans' green eyes landed on the sharp pencils laying on the table. For a swift second the pencils turned into sharp knives. The image disappeared from his mind eye.
"What the fuck do you want me to do, Frans? You realize how fucking late you are, fucking again!?" He said, not turning around as he asked him bitterly. Frans was fuming silently, angry, sad and full of white hot revenge.
"Tell me, Timothy, tell me the truth."
Silence. Frans took a small steps closer to Tim, making no sound as he crept closer and closer. "Truth? What truth?" Timothy turned around, glaring at Frans as they stood so close their noses almost touched. The tension was so thick around them, one could almost touch it. Timothy, being few inches taller than Frans, didn't scare him one bit.
"You know very well what truth. It was you wasn't it? It was your fucking doing. To get me and yourself out there, begging for pity and unwanted attention. To get more talking, writing, pictures and interviews that every single one have the same question: how are you holding up after the loss of your dear brother, Frans?" He growled under his breath. The sound almost animalistic, making the man infront of him widen his eyes. That small, almost unooricable change gave him our tight away, that's the result he waited, he had been right after all. A small part of him had hoped it was just a very bad and horrible accident.
He took another step closer, forcing Timothy to take one step back. "You're nothing more than a piece of scheiße. A lost and sad man driven by power. Kind of power, that perhaps one day, might make you regret every single decision in your pitifully lonely life."
Frans wasn't a lapdog anymore, no, he was turning into a vicious wolf, and Timothy was just a prey, a sheep. It was like a dance between prey and its hunter. Timothy took another step backwards, his eyes betraying every emotion. The masks were finally falling and breaking.
What was underneath wasn't pretty. Under the heavy masks was a scared, lonely man who by the looks of it, had nothing to lose in life. People who had nothing, were nothing, were always the most dangerous one of us all.
Frans leaned closer to shaking Timothy, slowly and quietly whispering in his ear.
"Murderer."
With a groan, Frans found himself on the floor. Timothy had clenched his fist and lunged at him with a force that knocked Frans down. He raised his hand, sliding his fingers under his nose. He felt the warm blood, Frans looked at the blood on his fingertips. The red liquid was odd and out of place against his pale skin.
The man standing above Frans was visibly shaking, his face was filled with panic and anger, and everyone knows those two never mix well. A forced laugh left Frans' throat as he peeked up at his manager, a murderer. "oh Tiny Tim, realizing your mistake now? You just sit down and wait, I'll get my sweet revenge." Frans whispered as he lied back on the soft carpet the moment he saw Timothy's eyes flicker with fear. It was all it took for the older man to stumble upon Frans' body and punch after punch, he tried to quiet the young man down. It didn't really do anything, except make Frans laugh, making fear struck into Timothy's heart like a lighting from the clear sky.
Suddenly strong and rough hands pulled Timothy off the boy, a loud thud was heard and Tim passed out on the floor from Marvels punch.
Marvel was angry, furious as his eyes scanned Frans' face, there was sure to be bruises that one could not hide. What worried him, was the look in those green eyes. The small hint of madness and lots of hidden pain.
He slowly pulled Frans off the floor, steading him. "What are you doing here, Marv?" he asked, trying his best to ignore his aching bones. "Well, it is my job to make sure people are secured, now is it not?" he answered back quietly. Frans' eyes slid over Timothy who was still on the floor out cold. "I think we both need to start searching for a new job." before Marvel could answer, someone hurried in the office, not looking up from her device, Martha started talking. "uh, Timothy, we need to find Mr. King, we have the night interview with Maryl-" Martha stopped in mid sentence, her eyes widening as she slowly looked up. It must've been one hell of a picture, Frans thought.
"interview, you're saying? That's actually nice, real nice. So, are we going or not?" Something ugly took over Frans' mind as he smirked at Martha, the woman was afraid. It was written all over her face. "oh, Frans I... You don't... I mean-" Frans waved her off, stepping away from Marvel who was glaring at the woman, no surprise there.
"nonsense. I mean, my brother just died but that's alright, is it not? Now, where should we go? Where's the interview at?" Frans chuckled at gaping Martha. "your... Your face." she finally said, pointing at Frans. He slid his fingers over his cheek, nose and chin, realizing there must've been some blood.
"oh, that's easy to cover up with some make up or shit like that, how hard can it be for people like you, Martha? Now let's stop wasting time and lets get going, hop hop now, what are we still doing here?" Frans asked, pushing past Martha and out of the room where Lance and Oswald stood.
"Lead the way. " he gestured for the two to go ahead, which they did, Frans tagging along. Martha stared at Marvel, her eyes full of unanswered questions. Marvel glared at her, his eyes looking almost as cold as the snow in Antarctica. Martha shuddered as Marvel walked past her, quietly like a predator he left the office.
Martha clutched her phone close to her chest, her eyes running over Timothy who was still on the floor, almost looking like he was just asleep. She didn't even give him another glance as she hurried out of the office to collect all her belongings and perhaps some money. She knew something was about to happen, and she didn't want to be there when the lighting would strike.
