STORIES FOR GRACE
Bully RPS: Brad Renfro/Mike Pitt
"Hurts For Real"
“Like, doesn’t that…hurt?” Brad gestured vaguely to his chest.
Mike, leaning back in his makeup chair, glanced down at his own chest. “Nah. I mean, not really. It’s not like real pain. Its…different.”
“Yeah. ”Brad looked at the row of scars running up Mike’s arm, trying not to be too obvious about it. They made him think of doing coke in bathrooms at premieres and drinking behind the wheel of a car, but these were scars that could show. Real pain.
“Besides, my nipples are so sensitive. I’m more worried about getting a hard-on on camera than it hurting.” Mike smiled and a strand of dirty-blond hair fell in his eyes.
Brad reached forward to brush it away, but pulled his hand away at the last moment. It hovered it mid-air between him and Mike, and he swallowed, hard, before pulling it back to himself. Mike’s eyes didn’t ever leave his. “I wouldn’t worry about getting a hard-on,” he said, looking away from Mike, to the mirror in front of both of them. He could still see Mike, smiling, amused, in the reflection in the glass. He cleared his throat. “It’d probably be in character.”
“Mmm,” Mike said, just a purr-growl in the back of his throat. “So, do you think Marty and Bobby were queer for each other?”
Brad looked back at him, confused at the change of subject. “Yeah, maybe,” he said cautiously.
“What about Marty and Donny?”
Mike smiled, a baring of teeth more than anything else. Brad coughed, clearing his throat.
“Well. Donny was fucking Heather and Ali, right? So why would he have to go for Marty?”
Mike just looked at him for a second, calm blue eyes and a cupid’s pout mouth, and then he shrugged. “I dunno.” He pulled one of the clothespins off his nipples, and Brad did his best not to notice that it was pink, erect from the abuse. “Ali and Heather were easy. Maybe he liked a challenge.”
He pulled the other clothespin off and got up from his chair, depositing both pins in Brad’s chair as he passed by. “See you on set, Brad.”
Brad closed his hand around them, feeling the metal bite into his palm. “Where you going? I thought you needed makeup.”
Mike turned around in the doorway, then rubbed a finger down his chest, showing Brad when it came away thick with pancake. “Already got done. I was just waiting for you.” He gave a little wave. “Later. Don’t forget to bring the pins with you.”
Brad waved back as Mike left, then looked back at the clothespins his hand. Just metal and wood, simple and innocent. Funny how Mike could turn something so innocent into something…else.
And at least he wouldn’t be the only one on camera with a hard-on.
Murder By Numbers RPS: Ryan Gosling/Mike Pitt
"Killing By Touch and Taste"
“Do you think you could ever kill somebody?”
Mike flicked ash from the tip of his cigarette. “Maybe. I dunno. If it did, though, I wouldn’t do it like them. Like Justin and Richard, I mean. It’d probably be one of those fit-of-passion things. Or like, a sex thing.”
Ryan raised an eyebrow, inhaling his own lungful of smoke. “A sex thing?”
“Yeah. Like, I think I could accidentally kill somebody while fucking them.”
Ryan snickered. “Remind me never to fuck you, then.”
Mike gave him a tolerant look. “Oh, come on. Like you’ve never felt that way before. Like you could just tear someone apart with your lips and your tongue? Like you wanted to split them open with your dick, so you could look inside them? So you could really know them. I dunno.” Mike shrugged. “It just always seemed…entirely possible to me.”
“I guess I just don’t fuck the way you do,” Ryan said, breath a little quick from the cigarettes or Mike. Or both.
“You should,” Mike said, and grinned. It was rare, and oddly beautiful, like all of his smiles. Botecelli angel, Ryan thinks. Everyone in Hollywood is just so fucking beautiful.
Ryan was just about to ask him something when a PA interrupted them, sticking his head around the corner of they alley they chose to smoke in. “Mr. Gosling, Mr. Pitt? You’re needed on-set.”
Mike puffed down the last of his smoke, almost devouring it, and then he crushed the cigarette beneath his heel. “C’mon,” he said, beckoning. “We’ll talk later.”
“Yeah,” Ryan said, finishing off his own cigarette. “Later.” But later he couldn’t remember what question he’d wanted to ask. He only remembered the look in Mike’s eyes, wild, and thinking that Mike probably could kill someone just by fucking them. He found himself wondering if it would be worth it.
Mike Pitt/JT LeRoy
These are letters I don't write
Every evening I give up the fight
And I see beauty in every day
But the beauty of words won't come my way
--Teddy Thompson, "Brink Of Love"
“I want to write stories about you,” JT says quietly, “but I’m not sure I know how to write about anything beautiful.”
Mike yawns and runs his lazily down his own chest, knuckles brushing scars on the way down. “If you think I’m beautiful, you’re looking at me wrong.”
“No. I’m looking at you like a documentary.” Mike just looks back at him, his face as always so blankly sweet, so unwillingly confused, and JT giggles, rolling over onto his back. “Fuck me. I’m too drunk to talk straight. Pretend none of this ever happened.”
Mike just smiles. Kisses him softly on the mouth. “You don’t have to write about it. This is already a story.”
JT kisses him, too, and thinks about happy endings.
In case you couldn’t tell, these are for Grace.