Bright lights blinded me with such an intensity that I had to fight to urge to shield my eyes with my hand. I felt hardwood beneath my boots and the intensity of a thousand gazing eyes. Sweat dripped down my neck and back, making the back of my shirt stick to my pale skin. Confusion made my brain whirl and I couldn't form the questions that were swarming in my mind. Suddenly, people were clapping and roaring with laughter. In the darkness in front of me, I saw a multitude of dark figures stand up, from the front row to the last. Laughter and guffaws swirled through the room and hit me at full force; tears forced themselves out of my eyes and all bewilderment left me.
I was getting a standing ovation. A big, idiotic smile spread across my face and every fiber of my being was bursting with warmth and I wanted to run and hug each and every person. But I was rooted to my feet in sheer awe and I simply gawked and smiled at everyone.
I heard myself speak into the microphone, "Thank you, everyone! I wouldn't have been able to get this far without each and every one of you! Thanks to you, all of my videos on YouTube have hit two million views! I am so humbled by this and so blessed. Thank you for coming tonight everyone, and please drive home safely."
I waved at the crowd, to which they cheered and screamed louder. A momentum of bubbling excitement arose within me, and on a whim, I ran to the front row closest to the stage and went running past them, high-fiving each hand that hung over the side of the stage. Cheers erupted sporadically when I did that and I continued on the same momentum off of the stage and into the backstage. I jogged to a stop once I was past the curtains, and I doubled over in breathlessness; not from the run, but from the pure exhilaration it gave me. Never before in my life had I felt such jubilation, such ecstasy from a show. I know I'm just naming different adjectives, but wow, what a show!
I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. Startled, I looked up and saw a man with jet-black hair spread in spiky, flat bangs against a pale forehead that contrasted sharply with his bright, blue eyes. His short, black hair was lightly feathered on top and matched his dark suit and purple tie. For some reason, I immediately knew that this was my agent.
Wait, hold the phone... I have a freakin' agent? Holy shit!
"Hey, Ozzie," I said, his name coming to my tongue magically. "Can you... can you believe the crowd out there? Like..." I let out a breath, still feeling depleted in my lungs. "... Oh my God..."
The classy man named Ozzie shrugged in his fancy suit. The dark colors worked really well on him. I felt proud to have such a classy agent.
"You've had crazier," he said nonchalantly in a wonderfully familiar American Mid-western accent. I grabbed his shoulder as my heart nearly burst in my chest. He stared at me in shock, like I'd grown twelve eyes on my forehead.
"I've had... what?"
"A better crowd," Ozzie stammered. "They were a little dead tonight. Hey, are you feeling alright?"
I had put a hand to my mouth once he started talking, and felt my knees go weak. I felt my butt hit the floor of the backstage and I put a hand back to keep myself from falling onto my back. Ozzie called out my name in shock - "Gwen?!" - but I held up a hand, and then put it to my mouth. I couldn't breathe... this was too good to be true.
This can't be real. This has to be a dream... right?
"Hey, I can cancel your show for tomorrow. I mean, it's sold-out, but yours are always like that, we can afford to cancel one measly, little show. It was a stupid Vegas one, no biggie. We can just get you right over to Hong Kong instead of making that one stop... Gwen? Gwen, are you crying?"
I had put my hand over my eyes and felt the familiar burn in my throat. My chest hitched a few times until the waterfall sprang forth and I began, embarrassingly, to sob right in front of a man I hardly knew. It was all...
Everything I've ever dreamed of.
"Gwen?" Ozzie was perched next to me on the ground, a steady hand on my back. "Hey, it's okay to be stressed out. It's gonna be okay." I shook my head and pulled my hand away, knowing that my makeup was probably smeared everywhere, but I had not a care in the world.
"I'm just so happy," I managed to croak out to him, before dissolving into sobs again.
"Oh, Gwen," he said and pulled me into a hug. Despite not even knowing his last name, I hugged him back and let him pat my back reassuringly. "Do you want me to call Mark?"
The question hit me dumb. The euphoria cracked and I pulled away and gazed at Ozzie in a disappointed surprise.
Why am I disappointed? I wondered. He's my fiance, I should be happy to hear from him, since... since why? Why haven't I heard from him again? Have I just been touring so much? That must be why.
"No," I said dumbly. "No, I'm fine." I felt the smile return again and I started to giggle like a schoolgirl. "Oh, my God. Ozzie, I... I made it."
An hour later, I was sitting at a next-to-nothing bar a few blocks away from the big-ass arena I'd performed in. Nearly driving past it, I'd asked the chauffeur of my limousine (it freaking blew my mind - I had to ask Ozzie twice as he was getting into his own expensive Porsche to make sure that it was really mine) to pull over and let me have a drink there. He protested a bit, saying there was plenty of alcohol sitting in front of me in ice at the mini-bar in the limousine, but I insisted. For some reason, I felt like I needed to go there. Not just craving the atmosphere of the simplicity of the small bar, but craving... something else. I wasn't sure, but all I knew was that it was waiting there for me.
So the chauffeur, by the name of Chives and a devoted member of Hufflepuff House, and also not ashamed to say that his parents were drunk when they picked out names for him, dropped me off at a local London bar tongue-in-cheekily named The Queen's Armpit (doesn't get much classier than that, huh?). I handed him a $100 bill out of my wallet (how the hell do I have those just lying around?!) and told him he deserved it and to go crazy for few hours and that I'd give him a call when I was ready. With a huge grin, he said he'd go out and drink to health of Godric Gryffindor, my House founder, and sped away.
I, the proud Gryffindor that I was, made my way into the bar and was smacked in the face with the odor of strong beer and peanuts and men in desperate need of showering. It felt like home, for some reason. Simple, not too big, and I was practically ignored as I walked in. Though I'd just discovered my fame, it was a welcome atmosphere.
At least I haven't turned into an asshole with all this success, I thought positively, mentally patting myself on the back.
The place itself was dimly lit with a few old, wooden tables scattered about haphazardly. A few flat-screen TV's hung from the rafters and were angled so that one may sip strong beer, munch on peanuts, and perhaps watch the Golf channel or Dance Moms; but at the moment, a basketball game was on and the few people in the bar, all simply-dressed people, were clearly engrossed in it. The actual bar was located off to the left; a simple, wooden bar that stretched from the front near the windows to the back of the place, and was decorated with neon sports signs hanging near the impressive shelves upon shelves of liquor, from the dirt-cheap stuff to the stuff more valuable than your grandmother's mashed potatoes recipe (pretty damn expensive).
I took a seat at the bar, the only person beside a man near the end, and asked the bartender for a drink. He was an amiable man of about thirty with a crooked smile and oily, brown hair. He poured me a shot of vodka and complimented me on my work; he'd seen some videos on YouTube. I thanked him graciously and complimented his smile; I'd only seen it once but it was very nice and he seemed to exercise good dental hygiene. That made him guffaw and return a fist-bump from me before going to the back of the restaurant to take inventory or whatever bartenders when they're not mixing drinks.
I basked in the happy vibe from our conversation and of my recent discovery and downed my shot in one gulp. I closed my eyes and swallowed, feeling the sweet burn in my throat. It matched the burn in my heart; the passion, finally fulfilled. Life was good.
In the distance, amongst the sports playing on TV and the men and women chatting over sports at the various circular tables, I heard a Sam Smith song wafting through the old speakers. I recognized it as Stay With Me, a single I'd heard playing on the radio very often lately. I let the slow beat and soulful, emotional voice caress my heart and calm my excited emotions.
This is what heaven is, I thought, feeling a light, euphoric smile on my face.
"Ms. Jackson," I heard the bartender call. I opened my eyes lazily, still smiling.
"Hmm?"
"This is from the man down there," he said, setting a glass of scotch in front of me. Warmth crept into my cheeks as the bartender gave me an excited grin and flashed a thumbs up before leaving me to serve the man who had shouted to him for another beer. I hadn't really taken much notice of the man sitting at the opposite end of the bar, but now I had to look. Taking sideways glances as casually as possible, I observed him. He had strangely yet excitingly flamboyant blonde hair that cast off spiky bangs across his pale forehead and fluffed up in volume across the top and back of his head. He was clad in a white leather jacket (white leather? Didn't know that was style... then again, I've been living under a rock in terms of fashion) with golden studs on the shoulders, tight, black pants, and bright red Doc Martens. On anyone else, it would have looked downright stupid, but on him, it worked. It worked incredibly well. He seemed a little familiar, for some odd reason.
Why does he look familiar? I wondered as I gazed at him out of the corner of my eye. Have I met him at one of my shows? Bumped into him at a shop, maybe? Did I meet him in high school? Is he one of the many people I've pissed off in the twenty-five years I've wreaked havoc on this planet? Probably the last one.
As I was scrutinizing him, he glanced at me-
I immediately glanced down at my scotch, feeling my cheeks burn. Then the shame showered over me.
Seriously, Gwen? What are you, thirteen? Just get the hell up and introduce yourself! He's obviously eccentric, you like eccentric! And hopefully he's not the creepy kind - just give it a shot, you wuss!
I let out a breath, and gathered up my courage. I turned fully towards him-
He was gone. Just like that, gone with the slight draft.
"What the hell?" I murmured, then looked around. The same people were still transfixed by the basketball game, completely ignoring me. I turned back to my drink, feeling bewildered and disappointed, but more bewildered. "Wait a minute," I said, as it dawned on me. "Hell, I'm engaged. What am I doing?" I dragged a hand across my face. The euphoria I had been feeling earlier had certainly faded to an extent; now that bit of it was replaced by obviously-deserved shame. "I'm such an asshole," I murmured to myself. "What would Mark say?"
"I think he would say that I was a gentleman by buying you a drink," a suave, British voice said from behind me. I jumped, nearly screamed, and twisted around in my chair. The man from the far side of the bar came up beside me, smiling. For a moment, he took my breath away. His eyes, two different shades of blue and two different sizes of pupils, transfixed me at the the core and I couldn't take my eyes away from them.
"I am quite fond of this song," he remarked, after smirking at me staring, letting his eyes roam the ceiling as if Sam Smith himself were playing Stay With Me in the rafters. Almost lazily, he let his eyes shift back to mine and kept them there, never straying anywhere else. He extended a pale hand to me, open-palmed, and asked in the most gentle voice, "May I have this dance?"
I at least had the mental faculties to snort in laughter. His calm expression faltered, and I quickly composed myself.
"I'm not laughing at you," I assured him, to which he visibly relaxed. "It's just- well, I hardly know you and you're asking me to dance with you."
"I think you know me better than you know," he said vaguely, smiling almost smugly, as if he knew something that I didn't. I gave him a doubtful look, inwardly grateful that I was no longer staring at him doe-eyed (God, I must have looked so embarrassing).
"Oh, really?" I challenged. "'Cause I don't even know your name."
He grinned with a twinkle in his eye, and said, "That's not important. But you are, and I love your work. I am a devoted fan. I've seen every show, and if you would allow me to claim so audaciously, but I believe that you trump all comedians."
Warm embarrassment attacked me again and I had to avert my eyes to my lap to focus on not smiling like an idiot.
"Well, I don't know about trumping anyone, but thanks. You seem like a pretty chill guy." He opened to mouth to speak, but I interrupted him before another awkward moment could arrive. "And, no, I can't dance with you." I displayed my right hand, the golden ring on my forefinger glinting softly in the dimmed lights. "But, I'd love to sit and talk with you, if that's cool with you. I'd love to get to know you, especially as someone who's been to all of my shows. Like, damn, man... where do you get that kind of money?"
Though visibly deflated at my rejection, he laughed at my humor and managed a good-natured smile. Part of me was definitely bummed at rejecting him, too; I felt so drawn to him for some reason, that dancing seemed like a natural response.
And he's not a total asshole, I thought with relief. This is already going better than it could've.
"I would want nothing more this night," he replied smoothly before settling into the chair beside me. "I must say, Ms. Jackson," he continued. "With all due respect to you and your fiance, I must say, that you are the most beautiful person I have ever had the honor of laying eyes on - men and women included, you exceed them all. And I hope that tonight will prove that inside you are even more gorgeous."
Holy. Freakin'. Shit. I sat there without a response. He is SMOOTH.
The bartender happened to come back to the bar and stopped short behind the man a distance, and his jaw dropped. He animatedly pointed at him and mouthed, 'You go, girl!' before disappearing into the back room. My admirer beside me must have noticed my blush at the bartender's reaction, for he turned slightly as the bartender disappeared into the other room. He turned back to me and lifted an eyebrow inquisitively, which I found very attractive somehow.
"I think the bartender ships us together," I said casually, and the very thought of it sent my heart on a rampage. The man in front of me laughed a rich, confident laugh and smiled at me good-naturedly.
"I would have to agree with him," the man said, his eyes locked with mine. He almost seemed to come to himself then, because he blinked a bit, and then murmured, "You're engaged- right, my apologies."
I waved it off, still taken aback what he had said a few moments ago.
"Anyway, tell me about yourself, Ms. Jackson," the man continued, crossing a leg and folding his hands on top of it. He seemed so out of place in this dumpy little bar, yet I was so grateful he wasn't anywhere else.
"Like what?" I asked.
"What are you passionate about?" he asked, gazing at me attentively.
Whoa, that's a loaded question, I thought with surprise. This guy wasn't kidding.
"Alright, um," I thought aloud, letting my eyes roam the bar for inspiration. I gazed at some of the bottles of liquor sitting on the shelves, then at the bartender dragging a box of vodka and then cracking his back unceremoniously. "Besides pizza and Harry Potter, you mean?"
The man smiled and laughed. "Yes, though I do understand that you would hold those in high regard."
"Hell yeah, I would," I returned with a smile. "Harry Potter is the best thing that's happened to mankind and pizza is the food equivalent. Together, they're like a power couple. A regular Brad and Angie, y'know? I always say, if heaven doesn't have either of them - pizza and Harry Potter, I mean - then I've clearly set my expectations too high. And will file a complaint with the Big Man Upstairs."
"How daring of you," the man provided with a mischievous glint in his eye. "I do believe that would consist of a strongly-worded letter, perhaps? And then giving the Big Man Upstairs the cold shoulder while passing him occasionally?"
"Damn you know me so well already," I said with a bark-like laugh that immediately embarrassed me, but he didn't seem to notice. "Though I'd be an email, 'cause I'm too lazy for letters. And there'd be plenty of asterisk-infected cuss words." The man genuinely laughed at that one, to the point of jerking some tears out of his eyes as he doubled over in his seat.
For some reason, I felt so comfortable with him. So at ease with him and his crazy outfit and outrageously blue eyes that, without a second thought, I just let my guard down.
"Seriously, though... comedy definitely is my passion," I continued, in a softer tone. The man wiped the tears off of his face and focused on me seriously. "I've loved it since I was little," I continued, "my parents were super dysfunctional, y'see, and I was an only child... they were awesome people individually though, but they married young and too early... y'know the jist. So comedy was a way out for me. Whenever I told jokes for them, they stopped fighting and laughed together. I learned that, laughing brings people together. It's beautiful, really."
I paused, realizing what I'd just said. I'd just opened my heart up to a complete stranger. I didn't even tell Mark that until we'd been engaged for a few months and he was arguing with me about my career.
The man sitting opposite of me nodded, fully immersed in my words.
"You are absolutely right," he said, his tone in awe. "It patches people up, as well. Heals them. Makes them whole, if only for a few moments." He seemed to hesitate, glancing at the bottles of liquor across the bar, before saying with words carefully chosen, "That's what you did for me. You made me whole again."
Again, this guy I hardly knew just took my breath away. His words were so eloquent and so emotional, I hardly had the brain power to deal with it.
Perhaps I should deal with this when I'm 100% sober, I wondered.
"Well," I struggled to look for words. "I appreciate what you're saying and I'm honored, but... May I offer some advice? Okay, well, I think that you should be whole on your own. Like, don't rely on someone else to be your other half. You should be both halves to yourself... ya feel me? You should be your own other half. Someone else can complete you, but you need to be two halves of one whole without them... does that make sense? Sorry, I'm not good at explaining things."
But the man was nodding, seeming even more attentive and awed than before. He was giving me his full attention, beautiful blue eyes never leaving mine, and absorbing my every word. He sighed, and then laid an elbow on the bar counter.
"Ms. Jackson, you are right again. I am aware of this, but I suppose that I ignore it sometimes. But, perhaps, considering... things, I should accept it now more than ever." His glance at my right hand was hard to miss, and a lump landed in my throat. I had the sudden, insane urge to rip off the ring on my forefinger and throw it across the bar.
"Hey, can I ask..." I trailed off, searching for the right words. "...what, like, what happened? Like, are you okay? You said I helped you out earlier, so... what's up?"
Wow, real smooth, Gwen, I thought with an inward eye-roll. That's how you get all the guys, right? Seduce them with your awkwardness.
The man, to my surprise and shame, let out a shaky breath and ran a hand through his spiky hair, messing it up perfectly.
"Hey, man, don't worry about it," I stammered. The bartender behind him looked up, terror plain on his face. "You don't have to tell me. It's cool, bro."
"What I will say," the man said after a moment of consideration, gazing back at me intensely. Grief brimmed in his eyes and my heart felt for him; I knew that look and I knew how he felt. I felt that every time Mark disregarded something I said, about a hobby, my comedy, or a movie I saw, and walked right out the door to go to work. I knew the man's grief too well. "I will say," he began again, faltering. I placed a hand on his on the bar counter; the man beside me seemed to gaze at my hand in shock, as if it were impossible to have it touch his so delicately, and then let his fingers intertwine with mine. The bartender was gazing in awe, still bent over the vodka box, as if his OTP were becoming canon right before his very eyes.
Holding our hands like that, amidst the shouting people in the bar at some point made in the basketball game, the man with beautiful eyes began to speak again.
"A long time ago, I fell in love with a girl. She was my world, my whole being, my reason for existing, and she asked me a favor one day. So I obeyed and did her that favor, something I don't do for everyone, at least not until lately... but she was regretful and wanted me to take it back, but I didn't. I put her through... I put her through hell, to say the least. And, she got through it, and she left me, broken and alone." His eyes were shining now, brimming with tears. He squeezed my hand, and gazed up at me, and to my relief, began to smile. "But, it's alright now. I've healed and I've found another woman, someone who I feel is truly right for me. She's funny, determined, strong, beautiful, and quite sassy, indeed." His smile faltered, and then fell off his face. "I fear though, that I may be making the same mistake all over again. It did not occur to me as I towered over her in my frightening state, but... I see something looming in the distance. It is a dark storm, and it will not go quietly."
"You say I'm crazy," Sam Smith sang in Not the Only One, "'cause you don't think I know what you've done..." Something in my brain sparked to life, and I saw... ivy on a stone wall? I ignored it and focused on the broken man beside me.
"It'll be okay," I said, surprised to hear my voice sound so whole, when I certainly didn't feel so. "Everything will be fine. My mother always used to say to me, 'Don't let the other kids push you around. Just tell them, 'You have no power over me,' and go about your merry way.' And I think you should tell this girl how you feel, and instead of flirting with girls at the bar, just go to her and be honest."
The man had glanced up at me sharply when I had recited The Labyrinth, and then his gaze intensified as I finished my advice. He nodded, grasping my hand tighter to the point of pain.
"You never cease to amaze me, Gwen," he cooed, gazing into my eyes... lovingly? Wait a minute... "Gwen Jackson, I am in love with you."
My heart thudded to the ground and soared in the air simultaneously. My soul was on fire but my ring was burning the skin of my forefinger. The euphoria I had felt earlier returned, even more intensely than before, but there was a pinch of shame to the point where I couldn't look at the man.
Oh frickety-frack, this is bad.
"How can you say that," I murmured at my lap, taking my hand back from him in sheer embarrassment. "You don't even know me."
"Yes I do." His fingers pressed against my chin and brought it inches from his face. The bartender with the vodka was on the brink of having an aneurism from watching us. "You are the loveliest, brightest, most delightful, and the most audacious person I have ever met," he confessed, smirking a little at 'sassy,' "and, Gwen... with all of my heart and soul... I want you to be my Queen."
Something inside me snapped. The euphoria melted and horror dowsed me like a cold shower. Everything came back to me in an instant- the Labyrinth, Jareth, my companions, the peach, Hoggle, the ooze, the blackness. My heart plummeted into a black abyss and I felt like crying for a completely different reason than before.
"This is fake," I breathed.
The fame, the success, this moment... it's all fake.
The man I knew to be Jareth was gazing at me in confusion, shaking his head.
"I don't-" he began, but I cut him off by jumping out of my chair and running for the door.
"Gwen!" He called after me, but I slammed my body weight into the door- it wouldn't budge. In increasing horror, I kicked and slammed my body against the door, but to no avail.
"Gwen, please!" Jareth begged, making me turn around reluctantly. He was out of his seat now, gazing at me. Everyone in the bar was gone, even the friendly bartender. It was just us. "Please, Gwen..." he trailed off, seeming to be at a loss for words. "I needed to speak to you... how else could I tell you..."
My heart stretched out to him, called out, desired to be next to him. It took all of my strength to not run to him and embrace him. But I couldn't... I glanced down at the ring on my forefinger, glinting off of the light more than ever.
"I'm sorry," I said, not looking at him. I couldn't bare to meet his gaze. My voice was choked up when I spoke again, as broken as he was. "I'm so sorry." I grabbed the chair closest to me and, with the strength of a thousand men, slammed it against the bar window. The glass shattered into a million pieces as did my surroundings. Jareth disappeared, and so did the bar tables, the bar, the chairs, the TVs, the bottles of alcohol, everything. Like water on an oil painting, it all melted away into darkness, in which I was now floating weightlessly.
Somehow, I felt a force begin to pull me by the feet downward, downward into cold reality, away from my dreams. Somewhere in the darkness, I heard the light singing of Sam Smith with the light, soulful rhythm in the distance:
"Oh, won't you stay with me? 'Cause you're all I need... darling, stay with me."