Chapter Text
1996
There were too many rings on his fingers to move them freely. Having his shirt open in front of so many cameras and hungry eyes of middle-aged women in the audience made him want to press himself deeper into the soft leather couch. The contact lenses made his eyes water as he was struggling to get the interviewer's face into focus.
But Middy was on his left, Carl on his right. He had spent months training his talking voice to sound just like his singing.
He is a songbird. He is fae. He is putting an enchantment on them all. And it's working.
“So, Robin, next one's for you - the album doesn't even seem to be your greatest achievement of this year, does it? Could you tell us what's coming up for you this August?”
“Oh, why, Jimmy, I'm part of the Irish Olympic team, gymnastics, you know.” A bright smile. A pause for applause.
“Brilliant! What are you aiming for?”
“Gold, naturally.”
“Magnificent! When do you even sleep?”
Good question.
“I guess I just don't.”
He didn't like the interviewer's laugh. It was even faker than his own.
“And what's next? What new heights are you aiming for?”
“Well, I don't know yet, Jimmy. The world is my oyster,” - he smiled, wide enough to show teeth, not wide enough to get wrinkles. Daisy didn't want him to need botox too soon.
***
“What a twat,” - Hezza moaned at the TV. - “Why are we watching this crap, T?”
“Jimmy is a piece of shit, but I like the band.”
“Ooohhhhh, you've got the hots for the little Irish boy!”
“Uhm, he's our age. And he's a good singer. And I don't have the hots for him.”
“Sure, you're so convincing” - Hezza took a swig of his beer. - “It just pisses me off when little sellout shits like him feel like they're better than everyone else.”
“I think he's sweet.”
“Because you're a queen, T. If he had a single shred of integrity he'd be singing in bars like us, not showing off his collarbones on the telly.”
“Collarbones? Which one of us is a queen?”
“Sod off. And change the channel. I want some real music.”