Get Too Close to The Flame

[Bronte Rockwell]

Like a corpse, Bronte Rockwell was sprawled on the floor of her New York apartment with a cigarette in her hand, waiting for something to happen. She wondered that if maybe she stayed here for long enough if something would whisk her away and create some interest in her life despite her honest doubt that it would happen. She was bored but also lacked the energy to do anything about it; so she lay there. The blood red lip stain on her lips was licked by her pink tongue after an exhale of the chemical filled item that had touched her lips. The scent floated around her pale face before she turned her head to the side, her black hair making seeing the cigarette in her hand fairly difficult but it did not matter because soon after she closed her eyes and wished that something would come and save her from her absolutely dreadful lethargic state. However, Bronte had never asked to be saved, she never wanted to be saved and never would be so she was stuck on the carpet in her living room, wasting away the day so went night fell she could play at gigs with her band. Bronte didn't know the time so with a drag of her cigarette she felt that the pastiness in her throat needed to be saved by the only drink that was ever in her apartment other than water; good old beer. Not caring about the dangers or what it would do to her things, Bronte took the cigarette between her thumb and her middle finger and gracefully danced it along the carpet before on her wrist to make sure that the last of the embers were out so her apartment wouldn’t suddenly burn down as she went to get a beer. Bronte had never experienced such a thing but she knew it wouldn’t exactly bring great joy to her life except the ability to write a song about something interesting which she did not need that badly.

Once she was satisfied, Bronte sat up with her hair a frizzy mess and her back tired and sore. But she was young and had years before she had to worry about her appearance in her home or the aches and pains of her body and what they were telling her. She was twenty-one, these things were just not important to her. As long as she could still play the drums and the guitar, it didn’t really matter to her as that was her livelihood, not the strength of her joints. So she ignored it as she stood up and walked towards her kitchen and grabbed a beer, opening it on the counter and looking at her cell phone that was right beside it. She had convinced herself that because most of her friends were muggle that she needed to become re-acquainted with their things that were in the day-to-day life and a mobile was one of these so she had bought it and got a plan with free texting. But Bronte hated texting so she picked it up and dialed Christian’s number and when the ringing had stopped from the other end she didn’t even give her friend a chance to greet her she just told him, “Get over here or I’ll kick your ass.” She hung up the phone quickly before moving to her leather couch and waited for Christian to come over, knowing that he would do it anyway. One didn’t be best friends for years without knowing their personality after all, despite the constant need for people to ‘find themselves’ which Bronte had always thought to be extremely stupid. But she wasn't here to find herself, just to have a good time with the people she enjoyed spending time with.​

 

[Christian Valente]

The last week had been a complete drag. Christian Valente had been evicted from his apartment due to constant noise complaints, and had to crash at friend's houses for the past few nights. He hadn't been looking or feeling his best, though it was rare to see the man when he wasn't disheveled and hungover, so there was really nothing different from usual in that respect. This coming week was shaping up to be far more enjoyable, however, with the prospect of a few anticipated gigs, and the current rehearsal in which Christian currently found himself. Though he was having some trouble reaching some of the higher notes in a new song, so was rather happy to receive the distraction of a phone call on his weird Muggle cellphone. Parting his lips to speak the standard telephone greeting, Christian was quickly beaten to it as he was instantly instructed to drop what he was doing by Bronte's familiar voice. In most cases, he wouldn't let a soul tell him what to do, almost spitefully so. But in her case, exceptions could be made. They were basically one and the same, so they had a mutual respect that he didn't really have for anyone else. As such, he'd sooner give in to her requests. But not today, he was busy. "No, I'm at-" he began to protest, but of course the person on the other end had already hung up, leaving only the dull sound of a dead phone to hear his completed sentence. Well, that kind of obligated him, didn't it? Bronte knew him well, and knew that in giving him half a chance to speak, Christian could talk his way around anything. It looked like he'd be conceding after all. Though the band had only just started their rehearsal, he convinced himself that they were done for the day, and made up an excuse to his bandmates about needing to see a man about a dog. Sure, in theory the band should have been his priority at that moment, but in reality the practice had been unnecessary and futile, simply a way to start the day's drinking earlier. Pulling his leather jacket over a faded Ghostbusters t-shirt, Christian apparated suddenly from the loft in Greenwich Village, to the dusty hallway of Bronte's apartment building.

Squaring up to the door separating the two friends, Christian performed the secret knock that he had shared with Bronte since they were teenagers. It had been thought up to avoid any adult figures intercepting the pair before the other could sneak in or out, and over the years it had been ingrained into his subconscious, uniformly executed each time Christian visited his best friend. Crossing his arms staunchly across his chest, the young man looked down at his scuffed red high tops as he waited to hear the click of the door being opened. He was wondering why exactly he had been summoned here this early afternoon; was there any reason in particular that he should worry about or prepare himself for? Knowing Bronte, it was probably pure boredom, or at least what he had always taken as boredom, though one could argue that it may instead be loneliness or need for a distraction in which she relied on Christian. Despite knowing her so well in most regards, she was enternally confusing in others. A few moments later the door was opened, and he looked up with a smug smile. "Hello," he greeted her in his usual baritone, though today his intonation sounded uncharacteristically cheery, as he stepped past Bronte and into her apartment, not caring to wait for invitation. "What's crackalackin'?" Christian deadpanned, sighing tiredly as he glanced around the room, despite seeing it so many times before. He seemed to be in a fairly facetious mood today, which usually indicated that the previous night had been a successful one, both musically and personally.​

 

[Bronte Rockwell]

Bronte’s friendship with Christian had been like non-other since they had realized just how compatible they were and that unlike most of the students at their school they were there because of their talent. This was why it did not surprise her that he had gone along with her request of him because whatever he was doing just couldn’t be as good as entertaining her. She was bored and needed him to cure her of this disease that plagued her like he always had. But he also cured her of loneliness when she felt it and of anger. Sure he was an angry person in general but something about him brought a smile to her lips most of the time. As she heard him enter, she looked over and nodded her head at him while she pushed her ebony bangs out of her gaze. “Hey,” she retorted with a nod, noticing the chipper sounds that rang in her ear from the melody of his voice, Hers was the not happy and upbeat or morose, it was just monotonous but she wanted that to end so when he asked her what was going on she answered in the blunt fashion that she always spoke in, “Nothing.” She squirmed at the thought of having absolutely nothing to do but it was the truth, she had tried to write a song earlier but it had been impossible and the paper that was piled up in and close to the bin proved not only the lack of ability to write songs this day but also her inability to ever play basketball. “Nothing at all. Mind fixing that for me, Chris?” she asked, looking up to his face with a gaze that matched the tone of her voice – bored. Her lids were heavy and almost matching Christian’s except she did not have the same self-satisfaction that the lines of his face read. Looking at him, she knew that it had been a good night but she spoke not of it, the subject always made her feel uncomfortable when it came to Chris’ encounters, she wasn’t sure why but perhaps it was because it was always suggested that they would do well to hook up. And that… well that was just never going to happen and not because she was some pitiable girl, it was because it would be strange. Almost like hooking up with your brother and she certainly did not want that.

The dark eyes of Bronte Rockwell flickered from Christian to her palm as she lifted it off her lap and pat it down on the seat beside her on the couch as a suggestion for her friend to join her. The great thing about their friendship is that they could cuddle up together on moment then tell each other to f*ck off the next but still be best mates. And not to do that bull crap girl stuff but she really thought that something great had happened for the both of them when they met. When their friendship had solidified something had changed in her. Bronte had stopped trying to look like that prissy girl who was rich instead of being a scholarship student, she had painted her nails black, worn what she wanted to and done what she thought was fun and best of all it was with the person standing inside her apartment. It really didn’t matter what they did together, they could get completely drunk or stay at one of their apartments and watch East of Eden or talk the entire night, because they were the greatest of friends and had gotten to that point in their relationship; the point in which she and Christian could sit in absolute silence and still be comfortable. However, Bronte did not want to sit in silence, she wanted to do something, to get rid of this boredom. Looking back at her best friend she hoped that he could do this with her even with the happy exhaustion slapped on his face.​

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[Christian Valente]

By simply looking at his best friend, Christian could tell that she was bored out of her mind. If they had been any less friends, you might of expected him to be annoyed at the way in which he was summoned, as if he had been a last resort, or was merely a doormat. But that wasn't the case, at all, and never once crossed Christian's mind. They were basically the back of each others' hands, so there was no need to even question it. He just knew when she was needing an escape, and liked to think that Bronte knew the same. Taking her hint, he casually drifted towards where she was seated. Christian thought to himself, breathing a soft "Hmm," as he pulled his hands out of stiff jacket pockets and began to intertwine his warm fingers, twisting them restlessly as he sat down and fidgeted on the couch, finally falling idle with his shoulder against Bronte's. "Getting boring are we, Brontesaurus?" he said with raised eyebrows, nudging her in the ribs with his elbow. Of course this was merely in jest, as she really was the most exhilarating person he knew, and to suggest that she was a dinosaur was on a similar plane to suggesting that Jim Morrison was awkward. He thought of a time when they were fourteen or so. Christian had convinced Bronte to help him break into the rooftop swimming pool of his apartment building. Of course he didn't divulge that he had a keycard, and every right to be there, but it was fun, none-the-less. You could argue that logic had been blinded in an attempt to impress her, and truthfully, who could blame him. He wasn't the most normal person at his prissy new school, and he had come to realise that she wasn't either. After a few hours of their 'illicit' two-person pool party, complete with underage drinking, Christian couldn't stop from spilling forth secrets. He soon found himself showing her around his empty home, showing her the pictures of a clean-cut soccer prodigy standing with his supermodel mother. He told her of his accident that wasn't really an accident, of his father's affairs and how they angered him so, of how dually unwanted and ungrateful he couldn't help but feel. Within such a short period of being friends, Bronte had become like a truth potion to the fourteen-year-old, and that fact alone scared him. Christian was meant to be unmovable.

Back in the present day, he wasn't exactly sure what the two of them should do - as long as they were back by nightfall, in time for the concert at ten. But time tended to fly without notice when Bron and Chris were together, so he'd have to keep an eye on his watch. "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is playing at the Ziegfeld. You know how I had a massive crush on Elizabeth Taylor," he suggested, not noticing the irony of the comment. You see, Christian had often thought that Bronte Rockwell reminded him of a young Elizabeth Taylor, and vice versa. Partly in their looks, but mostly in the way that they carried themselves. As if they were still graceful and placid, but with a sense of strength and confidence that not too many people pulled off in either time periods. They weren't 'elegant ladies' like Audrey Hepburn, they were women. But of course, their similarities ended there, as nought but a simple coincidence. "That, or I could take pity on your sub-par songwriting skills.." Complacent eyes had landed on the mountain of discarded paper, and Christian couldn't help but rub it in. He didn't mean it in an overly competitive way, and actually enjoyed writing with Bronte, but for whatever reason, things were never exactly easy when it came to either of the pair. Though it had to be said, he did have a song idea currently circling his mind, so maybe today could be different.​

 

[Bronte Rockwell]

As Christian sat beside Bronte, she leaned her head on his shoulder and suppressed a comfortable sigh, with her best friend here she felt like she was actually home. Not to be corny but being with Christian had always made her feel so much more comfortable than anything or anyone else could. As he hummed words to her, she rolled her black orbs. “Wrong suffix, Chris,” she retorted, with a shrug of her shoulders as she allowed herself to feel comfortable with him like she was most times. In fact, Bronte had felt comfortable around him so soon after they had met that she did not feel uncomfortable when he had spilt his soul to her when they were just fourteen. She had embraced it and even though at the time she had been in a drunken haze and they were now almost ten years older, she still remembered it and had even written a song about it. This song, however, had never been played for anyone but Christian because it was about his life and he meant more to her than some silly song. When it had been written, almost two years later, she had felt uncomfortable about it and at the time she was going through a dry spell of writing and needed someone's opinion, someone that she respected and knew understood the process of writing. To this day, Christian was still this person to her. But he was also so many things so she could not just call him her confidant. It would be too narrow of a title, sometimes she even thought that best friend was one but it was what they were. This was why they were able to talk about absolutely everything and still respect one another completely. It was why they could tell each other that they loved each other and mean nothing more than what the words were and yet they could not say one thing and mean everything in the entire world. They were Christian and Bronte, it was just how things would always be for the pair.

Feeling overly sentimental, Bronte blew her black bangs away from her face and listened to Christian's suggestion. It was a good one because they both shared a love of old cinematic pieces, plus she did like Paul Newman just like he said he liked Elizabeth Taylor. She had to agree, she was a woman to love and admire, in fact as a child she had often tried to appear like her but had stopped when she came into her own and discovered that she could never be like the classic actress. Just as she opened her mouth to agree with this, he teased her and she punched him in the arm with a smirk. "At least I don't rush through it like I don't care about music. I give quality, not quantity," she said, with a malicious smile on her plump, red lips. Bronte Rockwell was not going to take insults from anybody, especially Christian when she was confident that she was the better musician out of the pair. “We could dissect your lyrics and how absolute poop they are,” she said, poking her finger to his ribs tauntingly. Taking out her wand quickly, before he could grab the ones that were way worse than anything she had ever written she obliviated them so the words were gone and so he could not retort with anything that had any truth to it. Bronte flicked her black hair over her shoulder before she looked at Christian in the eyes and said, “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof sounds good.” Putting her wand on the coffee table before putting her palm flat on her friends thigh to push off so she could stand up. When she was standing, Bronte looked down at him and offered him her hand lazily with a happy grin. They would have a great time together like they always did so she smiled brightly and without attitude unlike most of her expressions. Bronte was truly grateful that he was with her to get rid of the lethargic state she was in and maybe after she could go to a performance by one of their friends, not sure whose night it was.​

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[Christian Valente]

Any reticence in Christian's appearance fell as Bronte sighed and lay her head on his shoulder. She smelled of cigarette smoke, as did he. They fit, and it was as simple as that. No need for flashy words to describe their relationship. Besides, Chris had never been a fan of labeling anything at all, especially the bonds between people. Love who you want, how you want. That's what he'd always thought, the mantra that he'd followed. So why make an exception with one of his most important relationships? "Which suffix?" he mumured in earnest, not sure what Bronte had meant. He was a man that could easily be thought of as closeted perfectionist, so to be corrected was to be in a position that he just did not think was good enough. Though with Christian, nothing was ever really good enough. He tended to be paranoid in that regard, always striving to reach or attain the next best thing, the next level on his pursuit of consummation. He just happened to be really good at playing it cool, despite his seething determination. He was definitely the Johnny Ramone of his band. As Bronte mocked his own lyrical ability, Christian's eyes rolled defensively, though he knew that she was only trying to rile him, of course. It was just the game of cat and mouse that they played, constantly insulting and pretending to be insulted by the other; throwing retorts back and forth as if they were discussing the weather. And if he hadn't been wearing that leather jacket of his, Christian would've already felt a bruise forming on his punched arm. Bronte was stronger than she looked, and he was softer than he would admit. "My lyrics are not poop. They are stories. Just because I don't talk about souls, and hearts, and emotions. I write real stuff."

To be honest, the fact that his songs were such slice-of-life pieces could in some part be attributed to an aversion to true emotional transparency. Singing like a poor little trust fund rawkstar, whining about a crappy family and angsty feelings? No, that wasn't cool, that was pathetic. People wanted to hear about life in the present; of calling whatever Edie Sedgwick clone you were with that night, taking her to some dingy New York bar, and having the time of your life while self-destructing in the most cinematic way possible. People basked in the romanticism and allure, or anti-glamour, of these generally insignificant moments, they didn't want to accept the reality of a directionless life full of hangovers and disillusionment. And Christian couldn't help but concur. He wanted to write the legendary songs. The ones that people heard and said 'f**k, I want to be that guy.' He was hungry for impact, not esteem. Christian wanted the infamy of The Clash, not The Kinks. To put it simply, you could say that vulnerability was not his strong suit. Or at least, he wouldn't dare to let it be. Whatever 'emotions' he was feeling were his, and how he portrayed them was the one thing he could truly control. Christian just chose to portray them a little more surreptitiously, that's all. He'd leave the naivete to the popstars. That didn't mean that the musician wasn't passionate about music, Lord knew it meant more to him than anything. But to take away the mystery - the pretense, if you wanted to be harsh about it - was to take away the magic. So his songs remained free of any mention of the word 'love'. Though the idea was always there, lacing every line he sang.

"Metaphors, pal," Chrisitian finished with a stubborn huff, coming off rather immaturely to anyone that would have known him less. His scowl softened to a smile when Bronte stood and offered her hand. He grasped it and lazily hoisted all 6'2" of himself up off the couch, almost toppling over as he did so. Christian couldn't help but laugh as he bumped into Bronte, revelling in the simple contentment of being with a best friend. It was casual, and casual was good. The fact that two people could have such a good time without really needing to try was commendable, enviable, in his eyes. "Shall we depart, fair maiden?" Christian suggested, still holding Bronte's hand as he looked to her for confirmation to apparate from their current location to the Ziegfeld, incase minds had been changed in the moments it took to stand.​

 

[Bronte Rockwell]

“Ing,” Bronte promptly answered, for a moment going back to that time when she was a fourteen year old girl and pretending to be pompous by looking down on other’s. “I’m bored. Not boring,” the black haired woman added in a softer voice but still with her raspy voice making it seem not apologetic at all. It was rare that Bronte Whitney Rockwell was ever contrite but this was just the way she was. She was brash, cold and did things the way she wanted so ‘sorry’ was not exactly in her vocabulary. She was portentous and cared little about how it made her look to people because she thought herself as better than most but the person sitting beside her was not one of them. Usually she thought of them as equals which worked because most of the time they were, although Bronte secretly thought she was a more talented musician due to her skill with picking up almost every instrument quickly and easily. She had an affinity to music, almost as if something ran through her blood; something special. However, Bronte did have another trait and this one just happened to be sensibility to she just cast her friend a smile through her crimson lips. “You’re lyrics skim the surface,” she said, pulling a face that one could only describe as a grimace before calming the lines around her mouth and forehead and just looking up at her friend. Of course Bronte was not going to tell him to change the way he wrote, except making his scribe neater would make life easier on her when she read his lyrics but there was no way she would tell Christian to change. There were several reasons for this, the first being that he would never change and the second being she did not want him to change. Christian Valente was her best friend for a reason and why make changes to something which was not broken?

Bronte and Chris often played this game of cat and mouse with their words but she did not retort this time. She had nothing to say so she just shrugged her shoulders easily trying to shrug off the fact that her lyrics were not ‘real’ despite being about pain and death and murder on the surface. Under them they were the three things he had mentioned and she was not going to divulge that she was a slightly offended. Bronte was strong and refused to be weak in front of anyone, even the person who knew her the most. They may disclose more than either had before but there were some secrets that Bronte left to herself, some feelings she did not share and some insults that she did not either although there were times when the unapologetic voice was not only confident but venomous to others. It was when she could look dark eyed without kohl make up on because of the stare lingering under the pupils of her dark eyes. And however much Bronte would be inquired she would never reveal that the look that not only caught the gaze of other’s but made them feel disturbed was one that should do just this.

“Oh really? I had no idea what a metaphor was,” she jeered through only slightly barred teeth, like a dog on their hind legs just waiting for a reason to bark. But Bronte could sense this was the end of this conversation between them so she waited for Christian to tower over her as they prepared to go to the cinema. Just as he did this and nudged her, Bronte nearly fell backwards as well so she laughed with him slightly. It was clear that she had lost all of the earlier emotions and whatever had really brought her anger. So as she looked into the eyes of her best friend as he called her ‘fair maiden’ she gave him a playful grin and spoke in return, “Certainly, handsome knight.” The word handsome made Bronte cringe but not because she was calling Christian this because many had said this and believed it, even she believed it, but it just seemed unnatural as it spilled from her lips a liquid that looked as if it covered her own lips, despite being only lipstick. Wearing blood on one’s lips would be disgusting and she was certain only one artist from a very decades ago could really pull it off.*

Bronte closed her eyes tightly as she mentally prepared herself for apparition. It was not her favorite means of transportation because she had the constant fear of being splinched. However, her need for something fun to do outweighed her fear and would almost always.

*Lady Gaga.
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