New York, New York

In which Andre meets Renly and tells him to stop smoking... it doesn't really work.

Chapter One: New York, New York

New York City.

Bright lights and sex. Hustle and bustle. Noir and class. Cigarettes and neon signs. Smog and congestion. Shouts and crowds, smells young and old, constantly mingling, constantly changing, evolving. This is Andre's city, the city of his dreams, his Paris, the Empire State Building his Eiffel Tower, Broadway his Louvre, Central Park his Saine.

Dark apathetic eyes framed by curls as black as coal stared out the airport window, pale pink lips opened to release a much needed yawn, arms stretched upward; back popping, shoulders cracking, removing the stiffness of his ten hour flight as blood slowly returned to his tense limbs. His small brown messenger bag hung lazily over his shoulder wrinkling the black vest he wore and shifting his loose red scarf ever so slightly out of place. Not that he'd notice. No, he was too busy admiring this city, his city, the city that at the end of these three and a half years would know his name and shiver in excitement upon hearing it.

New York City.

Timeless, ageless, shrouded in history and mystery, a story just waiting to be discovered, waiting to be written, waiting to be found, loved, cherished. One lost behind the layers of deceit and coercion that went into making this city the powerhouse it was, one that Andre was determined to find. 

The young Spanish-American spotted his bags circling around on the conveyor belt, black combat boots tapping noisily against the ground with a dull thud leaving a light trail of mud in his wake, he hoisted them up with a grunt. Two large black suitcases, that's all he had, all he brought with him, all his life contained. 

He felt the curious stares on his back, the condescending upturned noses, the snickers of ladies who thought they were better than him, who probably were better than him. Because of that he said nothing, looked at no one, remained disconnected from everything; he may enter this city trailing mud on his shoes and on the wheels of his bags, but he'd be leaving in gold and stars. He had to keep telling himself that, otherwise everything would be for nothing.

It was well past midnight here in New York and the night-crawlers stood on street corners, leaning languidly on lamp posts, ruby lips puckered in an ever so sensual manner, skin goosebumped in the crisp winter air. Drunken business men walked down the street trailing laughing escorts on their arms, women that their wives would never know about, the raunchy nightlife going strong.

Andre shivered and drew his scarf closer to him, wishing he'd had the forethought to wear a coat as he watched his breath fog the air in front of him. It wasn't snowing, not yet, but the chill was enough to make him tense his shoulders and shove his fists into his pockets, silently thanking the fact that he'd at least thought to call the taxi before stepping outside.

"Amanda Palmer, On an Unknown Beach," He mumbled, taking his dying I-Pod from his pocket and putting his Beats in his ears.

Andre shoved his hands back in his pockets as her voice - soft as silk, almost a whisper - filled his ears. His own little world, filled with her ballad, sending a gentle breath over the scene before him, calming and depressing; casting a new light of pity on the poor girl in the red dress with her breasts almost popping out of its corners. He closed his eyes, leaning up against the glass window, head and curls bobbing gently in time with the music, fingers and toes tapping the rhythm in their confines. The Soundtrack of Life.

He could see it, could see it all, each small seemingly insignificant aspect fitting like pieces in a jigsaw puzzle. A well conducted orchestra. A symphony. The actress, the lighting, the cinematography, he could see it all from his imaginary directors chair. He could see it, he could make it, he could breath life into it. It was one of the only things he was good at. Art.

Dim lights with thin black gels would tinge the scene before him in black forcing the viewer to focus on the one bout of color, the solitary spotlight. A pale blue gel would be set to lightly tint her face, eliciting an emotion of sadness, one that was drudged up from the subconscious, making her appear all the more relatable, three different cameras, three different angles, three different shots, all of them molded together with this song, this melancholy. He wouldn't change anything about the girl, well maybe he'd make it snow, but everything else was already perfect, all he needed was the camera, the thing to capture the moment for all eternity on film. That's how he'd direct it at least.

The smell of cigarette smoke wafted through his nose and he coughed, opening his eyes; simultaneously turning down the volume on his I-Pod, shooting a glare at the man standing a few feet away. One A.M smoke? Ridiculous.

Andre cleared his throat, masking another cough. "Mind putting that out? Might save yourself a few years."

The man glanced in his direction a 'Do I look like I care?' look plastered on his face. "You think I give a f**k?" He asked, lips working around the cigarette, muffling his voice slightly, still he took it out his mouth and put it out with his foot. "Happy?"

Andre nodded. "Thanks." He turned away and put the volume back up on his I-Pod, Dillon Francis's I.D.G.A.F.O.S, playing its loud gross beats in his ears. A small half smile crossed his lips, finding the title strangely fitting.

"Hey," The man snapped his fingers, a smirk on his lip, "You owe me another cigarette."

Andre flicked the left bud out of his ear and rolled his eyes. "I'll be sure to give you a nickel for your loss."

"More like a quarter, these fuckers aren't cheap." He patted his pant pocket as he did so, it must've been where he kept them. 

Andre managed a small almost apathetic smile. "All the more reason to quit then."

He shrugged, Andre was beginning to notice a slight twang to his voice, like it wanted to be southern but at the same time wanted to be something else less definable, it was interesting. "Can't. Addicted." The man said scratching the five o'clock shadow that clung to his jaw. It was brown, Andre noted, unlike the black and maroon hair that donned his head; he must dye it then.

"Never say can't, you won't accomplish anything like that," Andre yawned and rolled his neck, eyes drooping slightly, he hadn't managed to sleep properly for the past three days and now he was starting to feel it.

"Tired?" The man asked, maroon bangs falling into his face, the light glinting off his many piercings; two hoops at the top of each ear and a black gage in each earlobe.

"You have no idea." Andre mumbled, his voice dry and almost toneless as he responded.

The rocker, as Andre decided to classify him, nodded in agreement, green eyes staring up at the almost starless sky as if it had some secret to tell him.

"James Blake, Retrograde," he breathed as he stared at the rocker. With maroon hair and piercings through his ears, he made an intimidating figure for sure, but his eyes, they showed a much deeper meaning. In that moment Andre saw that there was so much more to this stranger than his exterior would suggest. There was real pain behind those eyes, real intelligence and Andre knew that whatever glimpse he was getting now was nothing compared to what he could truly be.

The rocker turned back to him, shaking his head slightly as if shaking off a dream. "What?" He asked.

Andre jumped, almost managing to appear shocked, though the dull apathy in his brown eyes destroyed any chance of that being conveyed. "Nothing."

The rocker made a face, one that Andre couldn't read, and shrugged. "Okay then."

It was then the taxi decided to pull up, cutting off whatever response Andre might have had as the driver got out. "Which one of ya' is York?" Andre lifted his head and looked at the man. "Me," He replied.

The cabbie nodded his head. "'Kay then York, getcha bags and hop in." He turned and called over his shoulder. "Where too?"

"Twenty One East Fifty Second Street," Andre said rolling his bags to where the cabbie had opened his trunk. "The Omni."

"Could've just said that kid."

"Sorry."

"No you ain't."

"True."

The cabbie laughed and Andre began to get in the taxi, but then he remembered the rocker and turned. "Do you want a ride? I don't mind sharing."

The rocker shook his head. "Nah, my cab'll be here soon."

Andre shrugged. "Okay," He yawned and offered a small two fingered wave. "Cya around..."

The rocker smirked "Renly," He waved back, an imitation of Andre's own, just cooler, like it actually belonged to him. Andre was too detached to make anything physical really seem to be his own.

"Andre," Andre said stepping in the cab. "Cya."

"Cya."

He closed the door behind him, almost gagging as the scent of stale smoke and sweat hit his nose. "S**t."

The cabbie looked at him through his rear view mirror. "'Scuse the scent kid, just the sweet aroma of working class people." He laughed. "Never seems to go away no matter how hard I scrub out those seats."

Andre inhaled through his mouth. "Lovely," his tone implied that it was anything but.

The Spanish boy scrolled through his playlist, settling on a jazz tune, Endless Journey by Peter White, the perfect road song, the type of song that made you think of late night drives in the city, rolling by neon lights and flashing icons, your head resting against the cold glass in an apathetic daze. It spoke to Andre perfectly.

The cabbie talked and Andre listened... kind of, it was more along the lines of the cabbie talked, spewing out random facts about the city like where the best Chinese food was, what show was playing on Broadway, where the closest subway station could be found and Andre would nod his head occasionally, more preoccupied with the layout of the city. With the old architecture mixed with the new, the modern with the antique. 

He'd lived in cities all his life but he'd never seen one that was so condensed so... up. That's all it did, this city didn't spread like many metropolis did, they just built taller buildings, adding level upon level to buildings that looked like they belonged in the seventeenth century and adding a modern flare to it. That's what was considered hip now a days. You could see it all over the Academy awards. 

The taxi took a left then kept on going straight, yelling out a few choice words to reckless night time drivers before finally pulling up to the hotel. Not a moment too soon Andre mused as his I-Pod sputtered out of power, stopping in the middle of the next song Ellie Goulding's Only You. 

"Here we are." The cabbie grunted giving Andre a tired wave. It must suck to have the night shift.

Andre stepped out of the cab and tossed the driver a hundred dollar bill. "Keep the change." He really couldn't be bothered with being exact right now, it was going on two a.m, he hadn't slept in, now, close to four days, and in just a mere four hours he'd be up again and repacking his bags heading across the street to finally start his first day at his new school.

Andre trudged up the steps to the lobby of the Omni Hotel wondering again why he even booked a hotel in the first place if he wasn't even going to be able to really enjoy it. He yawned, all he really wanted to do was sleep but that wasn't going to be happening tonight, he could feel it, that and the pills burning a hole in his pocket, the medicine for his insomnia.

He debated taking them while he checked into the hotel, his name nothing more than a scrawl on the ledger, the bags under his eyes probably looking closer to bruises, but he quickly dismissed the idea. Better to suffer a few more hours awake than over sleep and miss his appointments. That would be a wonderful first impression.

"Welcome Mr. York, we hope you enjoy your stay," The receptionist said in an annoyingly chirpy voice that sounded like she'd had too much caffeine.

Andre said nothing, just grunted and slumped his shoulders, his head hung and limp, almost lifeless as he dragged his bags up to his room. Maybe they'd even have halfway decent coffee he could make when he got inside, then the only thing he'd have to do would be to lay awake and stare at the dimly lit ceiling counting the seconds left until he could finally get on with his life. Hey, he could dream right?

Andre finally found his room on the fifth floor and stepped inside tossing his shoes off behind him, immediately finding an outlet and plugging in his I- Pod before flicking on the T.V and turning it to some miscellaneous weather channel. The volume was on low, really on just for the comfort, for a steady hum in the background to distract himself from his thoughts as he stripped out of the black vest and flung his scarf behind him without another thought. Coffee, he needed to find the coffee, his body was definitely getting low on caffeine, he could feel the subtle throbbing headache coming on from the lack of his caffeine fix. 

Or maybe that was just because he hadn't slept in three days. 

He shrugged to himself as he tossed his tight fitting black shirt aside leaving him in his skinny jeans, socks, and white tank top. He had a feeling it was the latter but couldn't truly bring himself to care. To care would require energy, to think would require energy, and if he's being honest with himself he's surprised he can even perform one of those functions semi decently. Andre yawned and strolled to the small kitchenette attached to the sitting room, the buzz from the T.V following his every move.

Thankfully there was coffee, at least this hotel was good for one thing, though it was doubtless some cheap knock off brand he'd never drink again, but he didn't care, he was desperate and desperate people did stupid things. That and make asinine comments to themselves. He wondered how many people thought he was crazy, probably a lot.

The coffee maker beeped and Andre reached into the kitchen cabinet, pulling out a clean cup, his tank top riding up his chest showing off more ivory skin and poured a glass. It was bitter and gross on his tongue but the caffeine went straight to his brain, the nervous jitter associated with caffeine acting almost immediately.

Walking back to where he dumped his bags he opened one and took out his bag of toiletries, full of soap, his toothbrush, cover up he'd deny having on his deathbed; he still had three hours to kill, he could spend them getting ready. Anyone who said Andre didn't care about his appearance obviously didn't know him very well.

Three hours later he was packed up and ready to go, headphones hanging from his V-neck shirt, I-Pod charged, aviator jacket on, hair styled to a T, and his bags virtually unnoticeable with a thin layer of cover up. He even decided to spray on a dash of the cologne he got imported from Paris, Earthly Jewels. Crap title but smelled divine.

He tossed the empty mug into the sink and headed out the door, he didn't have to check out till noon so that meant he didn't have to lug his bags around with him yet. He could come get them later. All he had with him was his aging brown messenger bag slung on his shoulder and a fedora on his head. It completed the hip modern look in his opinion.

Sending the overly chipper receptionist a wave he quickly waltzed through the entrance of the hotel and jaywalked across the street, only glancing fleetingly in front of him, his eyes locked on the street, making sure he didn't get hit, that was probably why he didn't see the man in front of him and instead collided solidly with his chest.

"Hey! Watch it a*s-," The voice started, but by then Andre had turned back around. "Sorr- Renly?!" Andre said incredulously. "What are you doing here?"

Renly smirked, his black and maroon hair styled into a mohawk today, his five o'clock shadow gone, the gages in his ear now blue instead of black. "Getting run over by short stacks apparently."

Andre gaped and Renly just continued to smirk, obviously enjoying Andre's obvious bafflement. "Aren't you like... a rocker or something?"

"Yeah."

"And this is a film school."

"Yeah."

"So, you're here because... ?"

Renly rolled his eyes. "I take offense to that," he faked a bow. "I, my poor, short, biased, friend, am an actor." He rolled his "r" at the end in an exaggerated fashion, his voice for a second taking on a different accent entirely before he looked back up at Andre, his, what Andre has decided to call, trademarked smirk on his lips. He held out an arm. "Shall we?"

"It's six a.m."

Renly shrugged. "So."

"Why are you so loud?"

"Loud? That's a matter of opinion, I say I'm soft, therefore I am." He began climbing the steps. "Hurry up, you'll miss all the cranky a******s who got the night shift last night shorty."

Andre groaned, and took out his I-Pod, scrolling through the playlist while he began his ascent.

Falling Up, Dillion Francis.

This was looking to be an interesting year.

Author's Note

..... Woot woot! Gotta go fast. Idk It's 2am and I'm posting this soooo.... Bear with me. WHATCHA THINK? :O

Reviews

[Akashi]

Even though I was born in New York, I never got to see this stuff happening.

[Tsukin Archangel]

lol wellll as I said in me disclaimer on the main like table of contents page. Nope. Never been to New York. Though I wouldnt REALLY think you'd see this happening even if you live there, not exactly something that's terribly obvious in any city :p~

[Akashi]

:D Hah hah ok.

[Tsukin Archangel]

>:p well hopefully you still enjoyed it but yeah thanks for the review :3

[Akashi]

I did enjoy the read, you are welcome. ;)