Bruised Ego (boyxboy)

Part Three

The shows over; performers are bowing, audience are applauding - it's time for the thankyous. It's my job, apparently, but I'd begged not to, told them that I wouldn't take on the solo they'd sprung on me not even ten minutes before the original dancer was scheduled to preform if I had to go back out and do their dirty work after the show. They'd reluctantly agreed, pouting and sweet talking until they got the message.

I think they still expected me to do it though, see if they waited long enough after the fuss had died down I'd jump in and save everyone from a prolonged, slightly awkward silence. I didn't. Edging to the side of the stage, I took off early, grabbing my bag and shoes and slipping them on as I went. Pushing the building doors wide, I wished I'd at least waited long enough to slip on my hoodie before pegging it. The breeze was chilly at this hour and it was steadily creeping further into autumn. The coldness nipped at my bare skin leaving prickles up and down my arms.

My flat was only a two minuet walk away from the studio and connecting block of lecture halls, right in the middle of the main campus. I patted my trouser pockets, feeling for my fags before realising I'd left them on the edge of my basin up in the flat. It's fine, I think to myself, clicking my fingers repeatedly and tapping my thigh. I'm cutting down anyway. But then I think about how I'd embarrassed myself earlier, during my introduction speech when I gawked at that boy in front of everyone. And then when I'd messed up the solo. Which, in hind sight, is fine because it wasn't even my solo to preform so I hadn't been rehearsing for it anyway, but they weren't informed of that, so what if they just think I'm terrible? I'm almost one hundred percent sure the crowd didn't noticed I'd misstepped and replaced some of the moves, because hello, they'd never seen the show before. But still. Man, I need a smoke.

Swiping myself into my building, I bypass the lift that I hadn't used since moving in day and take the stairs two at a time. Flat eleven is to the left and I punch in the code with practiced ease. No one's in the kitchen as the door swings closed, but the television's playing to itself from where it's mounted on the wall. I ignore the argument up on the screen and flick the kettle on as I walk out the room.

My door's the first from the kitchen and I waste no time snatching the crushed box of fags from my bathroom. It's the lighter that takes a while to locate, hiding somewhere between empty food cartons, days old underwear and course papers. I swipe pens and notes back and forth messily before spotting the small tube stood next to the unopened cleaning supplies stacked upon the windowsill.

Grabbing at it with no regard for anything in its path, I head back through to the kitchen, pulling open the fridge to get the milk.

'How'd the show go?' Bumping the fridge closed, I glance over my shoulder at Laura now sat at the dining table, bag of chocolate open on the top and eyes never leaving the TV screen.

'Oh, you know,' I answer, 't'was fine I guess.' I shrug even though she won't see me behind her and pour the milk into my cup. 'Want one?' I ask, just because I'm polite, waving the jar of tea bags in her direction. I didn't like Laura too much, but I couldn't judge that harshly, I'd only known her for a month or so. I also couldn't find a particular reason as to why I should dislike her so I'm playing nice until I do.

'Please.' She says, still not looking up at me, attention now on the phone in her lap. She pauses briefly, lips slightly pouted as she takes a picture and sends it to someone. I route around her cupboard for a mug, because I'm nice on an I'll make you a drink level and not an I'll share my things with you level.

'Say when.' I say, tipping the bottle up.
She glances up, over the purple rim of her glasses, and watches as I pour.

'When.' She glances back down, poses for another photo, and pops a couple of chocolates into her mouth. I drop the teabags in, fill the cups with water, and pat my pockets to double check that the cigarettes are, still in fact, where I'd put them not two minuets ago.

'Right,' I announce. 'I'm going for a smoke. I'll be back up in a few, but if you'd rather have a drink that's a little less stewed just take it out.' I say. 'Otherwise I'll do it when I get back.'

'Yeah, no worries.' Laura says as she watches the screen again. I slip out the door and jog down the stairs.

I light up when I get to the bottom of the stairway, pressing the automatic exit button by the side of the door. It swings inwards as I puff out a breath, and I watch in horror as it surrounds an already frowning face. In fact, his face slowly appears to turn into something slightly evil. 'Oops?' I cringe around the cigarette by way of apology.

He doesn't bother to swish the smoke away, instead glares at me until it dissipates. 'Finnegan! My mate, my man,' Christian pipes up over the boy's shoulder, unaware that his friend looks as though he's calming himself down enough to not be tempted to mess my face up. 'You couldn't lend Netty here a cig could ya?' He clamps a hand down on his friends shoulder, then squeezes past him, towing his girlfriend along by the wrist. She smiles at me as she passes, tap shoes dangling from her fingers.

'I promised him a pack if he came to the show- which, by the way, was mental; talk about talent mate! - but anyhow, I forgot I have no money and now he's mad at me. I'll reimburse?' He's already backing up the stairs as he talks, more interested in getting his girlfriend back to his room than dealing with his somewhat moody friend.

Pinching the cigarette between my thumb and pointer, I scoot past Netty and flick the ash into the flower boarder. Fresh breeze skims my waist as I lift the side of my hoodie up to dig into my back pocket. I'm nervous now it's just the two of us, wish Christian and his babbling stayed long enough for me to finish my own cigarette, especially as I catch his friend eying my exposed skin, my tat, can practically feel the judgement.

I tug my oversized clothing back down, shake the crushed box of Sterling in front of him. There's not many left, and the dull rattle fills the silence. 'Want one?' I ask, because I'm polite, and because he didn't follow his friend up the stairs, so clearly he does.

He clears his throat as if pulling himself out of a daze, reads the name on the front and turns his nose up. 'You need better taste.' He mutters, spinning on his heels and striding up the stairs.

I stand, stunned for a few seconds, because that was rude, before dropping my arm back down to my side, further crushing the box in my hand. 'You're very welcome, Netty!' I call up as soon as I hear the stairwell door slam, sure he's out of earshot.

Stumping out the rest of the stick on the ashtray mounted on the wall, I dump it and decide to go for a quick walk around the accommodation blocks, not wanting to risk bumping into Christian's friend in the kitchen.

But as I set off, I keep thinking, better taste in what? Was he talking about the cigarettes? Or my style of clothes? The tat on body that was exposed all through the show? Or maybe it was the dancing. Did he not like it - think I was terrible? But I'm not, I know that, have won medals and trophies and certificates for it. I shake my head and sigh, trying to forget about the whole interaction. The only other thought on my mind was; I hope Laura takes my teabag out too.