Chapter Text
🎶 Inspired playlists
- shatters of a dream (lyrics relate to the characters)
- champagne paradise (kayn's overall music style)
Sitting on a chair facing the mirror, Kayn could see his own tired expression as if in a blurred portrait. He was shirtless, very sweaty, eyes shining disenchanted under his loose eyelids. The backstage hustle was a frenzy from which the singer's mind had already drifted away; the only frenzy that interested him now was the one in his guts. He slouched with his shoulders really dropped and the tension in his hands kept him cracking his knuckles insistently. Soon there was nothing left to crack, so he resorted to forcing his finger joints to cause them pain.
Massaging his back and squeezing strategic muscles in his neck was a middle-aged woman. Her curly hair was tied in a braid, her Latino accent slipping into her words every now and then. She smiled, and perhaps she was more satisfied than the singer — it wouldn't be that hard.
“You nailed the concert today, Shieda," she said, her words accentuated with adrenaline and her Brazilian accent. The rush excited her blood, and surely having Shieda Kayn under her hands brought her spasms. The singer had an apathetic look ahead.
"I know I did, and you’re not allowed to call me by my first name" his voice was flat. Her eyes widened suddenly, feeling her face flush and humiliation stamp itself on her chest, as if she had fallen to her knees inside herself.
"Oh... yes... uh... I'm sorry, Mr. Kayn," she squeaked.
"You're not paid to speak," he replied.
"Sorry," she repeated only to avoid her voice trembling. Kayn abruptly pushed her hand off his shoulders and stood up. His gaze was narrow, and then he raised his voice for everyone to hear.
"Someone bring me a vodka with energy drink, now!"
"I have barely arrived and I already find you acting like a diva, Kayn."
The collected voice came from the only person there who, besides Kayn, wasn't running around to get something ready after the concert. The man calmly crossing the dressing room had white, straight hair, and no one could see he had tattooed arms under the grey suit he was wearing. It was Zed.
"No one does anything right here if not treated like this," Kayn shrugged and sat back down, huffing. He ran his hand over his face once more, anxiously shaking his legs.
"Calm the fuck down and look at me, Shieda. We need to talk."
"I don't want to talk, I want to leave this stupid Gotham-ass looking city," the singer bent over and rested his elbows on his knees, his irises vibrating, tormented and restless. His gaze scrutinized his own shaky hands and then rose to follow the color lines of his tattooed forearm. The drawing on his skin was pitch black ink plastered through his entire forearm. Coming out of the dark, the artistic and impeccable design of a circle with one adjacent triangle pointing to his wrist, so perfect it really looked like a steel piece. The finish was so exquisite that it seemed to stand out in an extra dimension. In that, Kayn allowed himself to be hypnotized.
"Your fans are clawing at each other’s eyes outside for a piece of the T-shirt you threw into the crowd," Zed commented with a sigh. His voice seemed an unpleasant noise scratching the singer's abstraction.
"Let them kill each other for all I care," Kayn wiped his sweaty face with his hands.
"Social media must be full of photos of you soloing the guitar shirtless right now."
“You really talk as if I gave a fuck." Kayn sank into the chair. The two remained silent while outside the screams of the crowd and the effervescent sound of the audience still reverberated outside. Zed shook his head and sighed deeply, feeling his head heavy with fatigue and stress.
That tour had been like a beating with baseball bats. Kayn was already a pain in the ass, but when he returned from the concerts, he got completely insufferable. A short girl with tied hair entered his field of vision. She handed him, head bowed, the drink.
Kayn took the glass from the girl's hands, and her eyes were terrified as if she were facing a murderer. The singer took a large sip, grabbing the arm of his chair as he did so. "It's awful, go make another one." Kayn put the glass on the dresser in front of him with a thud. Zed huffed and stood up. Kayn's eyes moved everywhere; with those dull eyes, he was the picture of disturbance.
"Stop acting like a teenage girl in crisis, Kayn, I'm tired of your tantrums!" He grabbed his arm and felt the singer’s skin boiling, almost feverish.
"Let go of me, Zed, or I'll fire you!" The singer finally seemed to be able to fix his eyes. He stared at Zed deep into them.
“Fire me, and you won't last a day alone, you idiot!"
"Great, you're fired, then." With a more spoiled voice than he wanted it to sound, Kayn sentenced. All Zed did was roll his eyes.
"Oh, Kayn, you don't even know what you're saying!"
"Where you came from, I'll get a hundred. I just need to call K'Sante."
“K'Sante?" Zed almost laughed, but it sounded more like a growl. "Do you think calling your big shots at the record company will make you get away with this? K'Sante is furious with you!"
The most childish expression Kayn could muster, burlesque, filled with irony, marked his face.
“Is daddy mad at me?" His eyebrows formed an upward arrow as he feigned a sad expression and pouted. "Oh, no, now I'm going to cry."
Zed let go of his arm and shook his head. He didn't need that. He was tired.
"We'd better talk when we're in California. If we go on here, I may punch you in the face." He gave his back.
Kayn watched him leave, swallowed hard, and clenched his fingers into a tight fist. The buzz from outside was squeaking inside his brain. Too much movement. Hating every single light around him.
Please, make these people stop screaming outside.
He felt his mouth dry. He felt his guts boiling and the blood in his head pulsating. He felt like kneeling over that glass he had thrown on the floor, like picking up those shards with his hands and throwing them at everyone. A guy passed by his side and brushed against his arm accidentally. It burned, how to explain? Kayn found himself roaring and barking at him like an enraged animal, like a beast wanting to tear apart everything in front of it. He looked around and all he saw were those lights around the mirrors, and he cursed them.
So, he gave his back and locked himself in the bathroom. He still had his hands on the door, as if pushing it to close, as if someone were violently wishing to enter, like in a zombie attack, as if thousands of thirsty fans were trying to force their way in. He stopped there, straightened his body, and found himself standing. His breathing came in stages, each one more trembling than the last. The bathroom was dark, and the lights sneaking through the window were the same ones he had defamed moments before. He opened the cabinet behind the mirror and plunged his hand inside it, feeling his dizzy hands hitting the bottles and soaps, making them fall into the sink below. He closed the cabinet, leaned his hands on the counter, and stared at himself in the mirror. He saw every line of his beautiful face outlined by the stupid lights, and he flipped himself off, showing the middle finger at his warm, humid, hyena-smiling image. He grabbed a small box of soap from under the tap and tore off a piece of cardboard from it. He threw his body on the floor and knelt beside the toilet, closing its lid. He took off his shoes and, from under the sole, took a small transparent package with white powder. The Brazilian light, slandered and complicit, seemed increasingly hesitant. He rolled the piece of paper into a small tube, and with it, he snorted another line of disgrace into his body.
***
The ten-hour flight back home had seemed like years to Zed, and the night of sleep that followed was not enough to recover from his fatigue. Maybe not even a week in bed would suffice. However, he didn't have much choice; there was always work, he always needed to be present. There were no vacations, no weekends, no rest. So there he was, walking through the corridors of the building where he worked as if walking in a swamp and needing to make an effort to lift his feet off the ground with each step.
He had turned forty years old in September - two weeks ago, in Buenos Aires, still while traveling with Kayn and the team. He had been so busy and focused on the tour that he only remembered it was his birthday when, at ten o'clock at night, his two daughters called him from Wyoming, where they lived with their mother. The rest of the congratulations he received through the internet and and text messages; he didn't get to see even half.
The day after Zed's birthday, Kayn had done the worst show of his career. He was late and presented a poor performance, with reduced time on stage. It all boiled down to bad mood from the hangover, disrespect to the team and fans, and a repertoire of half a dozen poorly sung songs, in a voice spoiled by the parties in his hotel suite.
Kayn not only didn't congratulate his agent but also gave him as a gift another truckload of headaches.
Forty years old. Well, he wasn't young anymore, but still, he shouldn't feel so drained. It was as if the last few months with Kayn had sucked his vitality and left him dry like a raisin. As he walked through the building and crossed to his office, it seemed that the strength for his steps didn't emanate from within him.
Finally, finally, the tour was over. São Paulo had passed, and he was finally back in California. He wanted to take a vacation, to take a plane to Japan while he stayed in a chalet just drinking wine and watching the snow outside the window. But if he wanted to do that without risking Kayn blowing up his own reputation, he would have to stick the singer in a spaceship and send him to space.
Kayn existing now meant Kayn getting into trouble. Zed had an immense portfolio of reports of him doing things while high or intoxicated, insulting paparazzi, mistreating fans, and it was increasingly difficult to not allow it to burst into full canceling him. Keeping away from the media his sexual affairs with married women and famous actors had been a masterful job. After all, being Kayn's agent was not a job for anyone, and so far, that man had been Zed.
Zed's distraction vanished as soon as he opened the door to his office, giving way to a startle that stiffened the muscles of his shoulders.
He didn't know what he should worry more about: if it was the two people waiting for him in his office, or the fact that all the folders he kept in the office about Shieda Kayn were open; including some he kept in a safe with a password.
As Zed entered the room with twisted face expressions, a mixture of astonishment and indignation, the two individuals present gave him patient glances.
"Good morning, Zed." In front of him, a tall woman in a grenadine suit stood up; it was Akali. Her high heels marked the steps she took as she walked to the door to close it back.
Zed then glanced at the white sofa beside. With one of his arms stretched along the backrest of the sofa and his legs crossed, there was a white-haired young man sitting, whom he had never seen before. With a thin nose, green-mauve eyes, and a sharply tailored gray suit, making him stand out without taking away from the piece an elegant cadence. His long, completely straight hair seemed to have very fine strands, all of it tied now in a bun.
"What are you doing here?" Indignation began to overflow in Zed's voice. Before he could ask anything else, Akali put her hand on his back.
"Come here, we need to talk." She had a cordial voice as she guided him to one of the chairs. "We couldn't call your secretary, and you changed your cell phone. K'Sante was starting to get furious, but we understand now why you're avoiding me. You are hard to track, a very analogical man to have stuff printed out like a caveman, but we manage to get what we need in order to protect you.”
Akali picked up a white paper with dozens of numbers from the desk. "Toxicology test?" She didn't seem worried, nor affected. It was as if she were talking about any mundane and absolutely boring thing to her, like gardening.
"He..." Zed sighed. Lowered his voice. "I'll fix this, I've said it a thousand times. I don't want anyone messing with this. You need to let me handle him, without the press, without any more scandals."
"Do you really think he can be fixed?" Akali sentence sounded vulturine. "You can speak freely, he's with me." She glanced at the sofa, referring to the young man sitting on it. Zed turned his gaze to him.
"And you are...?"
The long-haired man stood up. He exuded firmness in everything - from the expression on his face to the steps he took - and was yet another voice of arrogant superiority in that room.
"It’s a pleasure, Mr. Zed." The other extended his hand with a cynical smile. "I'm Yone, Public Relations from Yale University, I'm working for K'Sante now."
Zed greeted him with a solid handshake but remained seated and shielded by his defensive posture.
"Excuse me, Mr. Public Relations from Yale, but I can't picture how this matter could fit with you."
"We have new plans for Kayn, you know." It was Akali who answered. Her expression finally took some shape; a caricatured form of slight commiseration. "This situation is exhausting you, and it's no wonder. Kayn is getting out of everyone's control."
"This won't be bad. There's no need for you to wear yourself out like this." Yone added, using a consolingly intimate tone, as if predicting a coup de grâce.
"We"are going to resolve this in the best possible way, so you can rest assured. But you care too much about him to be a part of this. So, I suggest your retirement." Akali then threw the sentence like a sharp and direct blow.
"What?" Zed frowned, gripping the chair's arms. His gaze oscillated violently between the other two, immersed in indignation. "Did K'Sante send you here to fire me? And all because I care too much about Kayn?"
Yone and Akali remained silent, arrogantly complacent. Realizing he had raised his voice too much, Zed gave a bitter smile and let out a shrill laugh.
"Let me guess: K'Sante decided to hire this pretty boy here in my place." He inspected Yone from head to toe, his voice dripping with irony. "I wonder why that would be, right?"
Unaffected by Zed's words, Yone turned to the sofa where he had been sitting and picked up his briefcase. He straightened his posture and looked back at Akali.
"I'll leave you two alone to settle whatever is necessary." He said before giving his back.
"This pathological idiocy of K'Sante's will be the ruin of all of you." Zed's phrase sounded half prophetic, half cursing. "And Kayn's. Mark my words."
Yone paused for a moment, still holding the doorknob. He turned it and made sure a satisfied and self-assured smirk spread across his face before opening the door and leaving the room.