gas music reject (xgunnedlilies) wrote in kh_slash,
gas music reject

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My Dreamboy [2/5]

Title: My Dreamboy
Pairing: Mat Devine (Kill Hannah)/ David Desrosiers (Simple Plan)
Chapter: Two
Rating: PG-13
POV: Third Person, Omniscient
Summary: Mat has been having dreams of beautiful eyes, while David dreams of the perfect voice.
Disclaimer: I own David. He's tied under my bed. I own no one. Sadly enough, I don't own myself.

01. But Always Your Face Stayed the Same

Mat leaned lazily against the wall, pressing his face against the cold tile. The coolness radiated through his hot face, creating such a comfortable temperature on his burning skin. He felt his eyes droop dramatically, lulling him back to sleep. He eagerly awaited the dreamland that would consume him and take him away from all his problems. Yet, all he got was a pinch from Greg.

"Ow!" Mat hissed, rubbing the searing area. The pain rushed to his head, rendering him awake. He shot his band mate a glare and snarled, "What the hell was that for?"

"You were falling asleep again!" Greg said, exasperated. His face softened as he witness Mat's eyes droop again. "Hey, you okay?"

Mat nodded, yawning, "I’m fine." His eyes tear up and he rubbed them, sending Greg a hopelessly tired smile.

The bassist just shrugged, not caring to argue at the moment. Watching his friend walk away, Mat slumped even harder onto the wall, his body wanting to be impressed into the cool tile. He yawned even louder, almost becoming obnoxious. He wasn’t surprised of his numbing tiredness. Sleep hadn't come easily last night. His mind was too busy conjuring up collage, after collage of those eyes. His mind and body simply refused to rest as long as those eyes were in his head. When the maddening slideshow ceased, it was the early hours of tomorrow, and sleep was only a mere four hours. In his opinion, he had every right to be exhausted. Mat began to slowly fall back asleep again.

"Hey, Matty," Jon greeted, sauntering up to his weary friend.

"Huh—oh, hi," Mat greeted back. His voice lacked the enthusiasm that his friend's so obviously held, and he hoped Jon wouldn't notice. "What's up?"

"I should be asking you that," Jon said, his worry etched visibly on his girlish face. "You look like shit. How much sleep you got after I left you?"

"Not much, I'll tell you that."

"Those dreams are really taking a toll on you," Jon observed, looking over his friend's current state.

"You think?" Mat snapped, sarcasm dripping like venom from his mouth. Once he saw the hurt in the guitarist's eyes, he quickly apologized. "I'm so sorry, Jon. I'm just extremely cranky. You know, the whole male PMS thing? Forgive me?"

Jon smiled sympathetically, feeling his friend's tiredness in his own bones. He studied his friend closely—and the sight wasn't as pretty as recent pictures led to believe. His usually perfectly messed hair was a natural bed head mess, hair sticking in unknown angles; those beautiful eyes had spider wed veins around them, making him look even more weary; his skin, which glowed so beautifully, a perfect pale, was pasty; Jon hated what these dreams—no, nightmares—did to his friend. They're almost shattered his mental frame and made him so tired that his looks didn't matter. It was heartbreaking and he could only stand and watch these dreams eat him away.

"It's okay," he assured, pushing some hair from Mat's eyes. He drew his and back and smiled, "We're on in ten. Beautify yourself, won't ya?"

Jon left Mat to pretty himself up. Mat sighed and smile, thanking whatever higher power there was that he had such a wonderful friend. But as he fixed his eyeliner and white football player paint, he couldn't help but smile wider. He knew tonight would be special.

"And why am I here again?"

David sighed, irritated by Pierre's constant whining. The dark0haired, chubby cheeked singer had done nothing but whine continuously of David's dragging him to a concert for a "virtually unknown band". And ask what time the concert would end, exclaiming he had a hot date that night. I bet with your hand, David thought venomously, yet he daren't speak it aloud, for it would get him a noogie, ruining the hair he'd spent hours on.

"And since when do you listen to Kill Hannah? " Pierre continued to rant. David snapped his head towards Pierre, an angry snarl embedded onto glossed pierced lips. His amber eyes burned in annoyance and hate, black wisps of hair over his right eye.

"If you didn't want to come, Pierre, you could've stayed home. All you've done is nag all fucking night! I'm sick of it! Here," David dug into the pocket of his tight girl jeans and emerged with keys; "Take the car keys and go home! I'm here because I've been having horrible dreams—no! These dreams are wonderful, but they haunt me and this will preoccupy my mind of them! If I go crazy, Pierre, I will take you with me and you'll wish you have never been so fucking whiny!"

David panted, feeling better than ever. He blew a few strands of hair form his face, and held his hand out, waiting for Pierre to take the keys, which dangled from, his index finger. Yet, all Pierre did was stare dumbfounded at his best friend. And then hugged the distraught boy.

"Sorry," he said, squeezing David. "I won't leave. Let's go. We're already five minutes late."

So what's the craziest thing you've done lately?

Actually doing this concert, Mat thought, singing along to the music that poured from the speakers and amplifiers. The adrenaline rushed through his veins like an unknown drug. The syringe was the audience, singing with him and craving for more. Mat knew this was the reason he was playing here, exhausted and all.

He searched the crowd, feeding from the hype. People danced, crowd-surfed and sang. He saw many girls with tears in their eyes, loving the fact that they were seeing one of their favorite bands live. He saw many men and boys catch his eye, and smile. Some even winked, making him tint rose, and smirk into his microphone. As he searched the far corner, Mat gasped inwardly, his lips trembling against the microphone. His eyes never left the corner, and his heart began to beat erratically. For some reason, he felt his head spin, and his throat close in on him, as if hands were constricting around it. The hands squeezed tighter and he tried to ignore his heart, but he couldn't He hoped those eyes weren't real. He hoped they'd release him form their stranglehold. But they didn't, and they were real.

Those eyes were the familiar amber color, with the few wisps around them that had haunted him for months.

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