"You're lucky, you know that? Fucking lucky!" Manson screamed at the childishly fuming bassist, who flinched, but otherwise hid his fear from the shock-rock singer.
Twiggy stood, hands on his hips, with his poorly painted lips pursed, and his eyes narrowed – a pose of general defiance. It was utterly infuriating to Manson.
"Lucky? Lucky? Yeah, right, Brian," the bassist sneered, a satisfied huff escaping the confines of his throat at the vocalist's expression of anger for being called by his given name. "If anyone's lucky, it's your new plaything. Who is it, anyway? If you're throwing me out, you may as well tell me who my replacement is."
"As if it's any of your fucking business." Manson spoke snippily, words coming out in jagged snatches, rather than actual sentences. "Get out of here, Twiggy. I don't wanna see your face."
The bassist's ego deflated visibly, his stance shrinking, and his hands falling from his hips. Was this it? Manson was – just as quickly as he'd come in – leaving again? Well. The filthy-haired kinderwhore had subconsciously known this day would come, but, equally subconsciously, had hoped it never would. Manson was unpredictable. Always had been. That was what made him so desirable, to Twiggy.
"Manson…" the bass guitarist started toward the singer, his arms out and ready to wind around his ex-lover.
"Get the hell out. I don't want to see you anymore. Fucking go."
There was to be no reasoning with the angry shock-rocker. That much was obvious. Instead of forcing cuddles on his fuming companion and band-mate, Twiggy nodded, turned on one heel, and shuffled out, trailing his ratty black boa behind himself on the floor. Upon reaching the front door of the vocalist's Los Angeles home, he turned, casting a hopeful, wet-eyed glance at Manson, who subsequently raised one arm and pointed, telling him silently to go.
Finally, thought Manson to himself, slamming the palms of his ringed hands onto his forehead as soon as Twiggy was out of sight. That outburst had building a while. A long while. Twiggy was the fucking clingiest of all the lovers he'd had – and that was saying something. Turning away from the door, the singer crossed to the coffee table, collected his ever-present bottle of absinthe from where it rested among leftover white powder – the main event of his and the bassist's evening together – and curled onto the sofa, heart still pumping out a wickedly fast beat in his chest. Just as the rhythm of his heart had begun to slow, and his erratic breathing had begun its trek to normality, the irritatingly high pitch of his landline blared in his ear, causing his whole body to jolt.
"Motherfuck."
Gripping the receiver angrily, the vocalist slammed the device to his ear, and forced himself to greet whatever unwary phone partner may be awaiting his wrath. "What the fuck do you want?"
"…" John remained speechless, taken slightly aback by the horridly rude greeting given by the dark-haired giant of a man on the other end of the call. Twiggy had seemed upset, and naturally, the guitarist had assumed it had something to do with the singer. "..Brian?" Calling him Marilyn just didn't seem right – no matter whether it pissed him off to be called his given name or not. "It's John. Is everything alr-"
"No. It's not. I don't know who put you up to it, but you didn't need to call. No one needed your bleach-blonde ass butting in."
Blinking, the guitarist released a shocked, if not bemused scoff. "And I don't know what your deal is, Brian, but it isn't with me, so you can calm the fuck down, huh?"
No answer. The singer was shocked. John - so sweet and soft; the mother hen of the band - had just told him off. That, in itself, took a fuck of a lot of guts. Something the singer hadn't expected of his band-mate.
"You there?"
Silence.
"Bri- Manson? Are you there?"
Still nothing.
"Fuck. I'm coming over."