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lollytea · 1 year ago

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"there's a bit where hunters life falls apart" HELLO?? MISS TEA ELABORATE (if you please)

Alright. Walk with me. Let's talk.

(Potentially triggering content ahead.)

So imagine you're a teenage boy. Around 17-18. Imagine you're out in public and you've snuck away somewhere discreet to make out with your girlfriend, who you utterly adore.

Someone catches the two of you in the act and snaps a picture. If you were a normal teenage boy and she was a normal teenage girl, this would be a little embarrassing at worst.

But neither of you are normal. So that one little picture means the end of the world for you both.

Since you were little, you've been taught that you have to work extra hard to keep your secrets, because the whole world wants to know them. The whole world is obsessed with you and you should be grateful. However, there are certain things about you that could tarnish your golden reputation so you need to do whatever it takes to keep them to yourself.

And if they find out and make a mockery out of you, it's your own damn fault.

Don't say Uncle didn't warn you.

Do not tell the world the secret to your lean build and muscled limbs. If they found out about the ballet, the rumors would swirl. You don't want them thinking you're gay, do you?

Because you're not gay.

At least not entirely. But they can't know about that either.

Do not tell the world about your Diva Tantrums. About how even insignificant things like the stage lights being too bright or your costume being a weird texture can lead to you having a complete episode on set. You don't want them thinking you have a mental disorder, do you?

Because you don't have a mental disorder. You're perfectly sane. It's just hard to explain why silly things bother you so much.

However, if a rumor goes around that earns you positive attention, then by God, you encourage it.

You are not dating your co-star Emira Blight. Actually you're pretty sure Emira Blight hates your guts.

But neither of you are allowed to say that. It's good publicity for both of you. So you're kinda shackled to each other.

Neither of you are obliged to claim you're dating. But you're not allowed to deny it either. It's the speculation that keeps the interest alive.

She seems like a nice girl but she feels a lot of resentment towards you because all of her magazine/red carpet interviews are questions about you and her relationship with you. For some reason.

"Sexism," Says your girlfriend when you tell her about it. This explains a lot.

Your girlfriend knows a lot about sexism. She knows a lot about various types of prejudice. She deals with at least 4 of them on a regular basis.

She's tough though. Tough as a tree. But she's young too. Young and sensitive. It wears her down, all of this. It really does.

Like you, your girlfriend lives in the spotlight. Unlike you, she's a rather divisive person. A lot of people in Hollywood don't like her for stupid reasons.

You love her though. You love her to pieces.

She's a little like you and you're a little like her. You trust her enough to tell her your secrets. She knows about the ballet. She knows about the way you sometimes look at boys. She knows that your brain does not operate the way it should.

But she loves you. She loves you to pieces.

The little trail of kisses that she leaves down the slope of your nose makes you like it more.

You've always been insecure about your large hooked nose. It makes you a little less marketable so it sometimes sabotages your chance at booking roles.

You're no Edric Blight, that's for damn sure. Button nosed bastard.

But your girlfriend cups your face in her hands and calls you her prettyboy and it makes you melt every time.

It's the nose thing. And the teeth thing. And the hooded eye thing. You'll never be the most attractive young actor in Hollywood.

But you're not doing badly, all things considered.

Especially when it comes to how you are treated compared to your girlfriend.

"The perks of being a slim white man," She says jokingly, cuddling up against your chest.

"Also nepotism," You reply.

Your girlfriend makes you like yourself in a way you've always had to fake.

She also fakes a lot. She fakes confidence when it's not really there. She fakes cheerfulness and nonchalance when she really wants to burst into tears.

So you're determined to make her like herself too.

It took a long time for her to let you hold her. She was afraid you'd notice how soft her body is.

But when you're kissing her neck on that day, you're squeezing her thighs and she squeaks and giggles. Because you're tickling her and not because her thighs are off limits.

You're allowed to touch her now without reservations. Because she trusts you wholeheartedly. Thank God.

You promise you're always going to be there for her. She promises the same for you.

You promise that whatever happens, you'll figure it out together.

You're not allowed to tell the world that your girlfriend is your girlfriend.

There's a few reasons for this. The first being that this is your first relationship. It's hers too. Neither of you really know what you're doing at first but you certainly don't want millions of eyes watching you both awkwardly try to navigate romance.

But the second reason is what really matters here.

If people found out, they would be really really really mean to her.

"I look weird standing next to you," She murmurs. "Nothing like Emira,"

Whenever you tell her that she's the prettiest girl in existence, she grins, flipping her hair. "I know!"

But that's only in the privacy of your dressing room. When it's just you and her and you both feel safe. It's when she steps back out into the spotlight that all that confidence fizzles away.

But it's been a while since you started dating and honestly, it's getting exhausting. A little sad too.

One time you were both at the zoo. A few of the cast members of Hexside and Golden Guard were there too so it wasn't suspicious that you were out in public together.

Your girlfriend saw another teenage boy thread his fingers through those of the girl beside him, happy and carefree. In broad daylight too! But nobody cared about those two kids dating. Because the whole world wasn't watching them.

She had to go slip away somewhere quiet and wipe away a few tears before anybody saw her.

It's not fun living like this. Always nervously glancing over your shoulder. Always checking yourself to make sure you're not smiling too warmly at the girl you are hopelessly weak for. It's extremely draining to live in paranoia.

The two of you have been talking and you're thinking about going public. Not because you want the whole world in your business but after the initial burst of attention, it'll probably calm down.

If anything, you just want people to not care. Indifference is all you could ask for.

But public indifference is a privilege that people like you don't get.

Things have changed over the last year. Your girlfriend is way more popular than she used to be. She has a dedicated fanbase. So....maybe people will be nice?

You're hopeful. So is she.

The picture is snapped.

The picture spreads.

The world knows.

And people are not nice.

This is the part you don't want to talk about. Describing it in detail is painful.

Things were said about your girlfriend that hurts to think about.

And it's because of you. If it hadn't been your stupid face she was kissing, you wouldn't hear her uneven breath over the phone as she tries to keep herself from crying.

The two of you stay up for hours, trying to figure out what to do next and are essentially just talking in circles until your throat hurts.

Neither of you know what to do next. So you give up and call it a night and promise to think about it some more in the morning.

You sleep for 3 hours and when you regain consciousness at 5am you find a long string of notifications on your phone.

Texts from your girlfriend.

Wait.

No.

These aren't texts from your girlfriend.

You don't have a girlfriend.

You reply immediately.

You stand up. You get dressed. You go to work.

At some point you're obliged to be out in public.

You're swarmed by a crowd of cameras with people attached. Questions are hurled at you.

They ask about her.

You black out.

You break someone's nose.

You get punished.

You've never been punished to such an extreme extent before but you understand why.

You have spent a lifetime being perfected by your Uncle. Your image is spotless. You're a polite, charasmatic young actor with an admirable dedication to your Christian faith.

You're considered a role model by many.

And what have you done?

You've ruined it.

You're ruined everything.

The rumors are already erupting in the distance like a mushroom cloud and it's only going to get worse.

Within days, you're somebody else in the world's eyes.

You're a troubled teen star.

You're ignorant.

You're aggressive.

You're violent.

You've lost your way.

Don't you know that children look up to you?

Why would you do something like this?

You're pretty sure it lasted days. Or maybe weeks. But it was endless to you.

It's your wardrobe stylist that discovers the bruises before your attendant can sneak you to the makeup artists (who are apparently great at keeping their mouths shut.)

You and the wardrobe stylist have become close. He likes you a lot more than he used to.

The bruises alarm him.

"I'm sorry," He apologizes but doesn't elaborate. You don't ask.

What happens next is a very long arduous blur.

You're in a contract. This is significant.

There's lawyers involved. The wardrobe stylist fights tooth and nail to get these lawyers.

There are litigations.

You're required to talk about your relationship with your Uncle in painful detail. It's necessary. But there's always a hand on your back to keep you anchored to reality.

You're 18 now. This is also significant.

One thing happens after another.

Until one day you wake up, emancipated.

Your Uncle is no longer your legal guardian.

You're not an actor anymore.

Thank God.

This is good for you, you know that. You wouldn't have lived to see 21 if this had carried on.

But....who are you now?

You're nobody.

You live with the man who saved your life in a nondescript house he bought in a nondescript neighbourhood.

You think it will be nothing but smooth sailing from here. But it's not.

You don't know how to be nobody. You've never been nobody before. You have to adjust.

You've always been discouraged from eating and now you can barely keep down a whole meal. It takes time.

You usually operate on 5 or less hours of sleep so you struggle to stay unconscious the whole night. That takes time too.

Sometimes you think you're fine but you're not.

It's scary not knowing who you are anymore. And when you get scared, you tend to get angry.

You fight with everyone when you're in one of these moods. You fight with the man you live with.

You fight with the woman next door who treats you like her own son.

You fight with her two daughters. The one who also lost her girlfriend around the same time you did. The one who's become your best friend in the world.

You fight with the other daughter. The one who has scars like yours and had a breakdown when you yelled at her and you hated yourself for weeks.

You never knew you were so mean.

Maybe the things people said about you were right.

You have a therapist now. The man you live with arranged it.

The therapist has to come to your house for sessions because you can only go as far as the end of your block.

You have agoraphobia now, apparently. Being out in public makes you have some nasty panic attacks.

The thought of being photographed is enough to make you spiral.

You haven't left that neighbourhood in months.

You miss her.

You also miss your best friend, but he's cut you off too.

It was nothing personal. It's just...you were always a trio. But she's made it clear that seeing you again would hurt. Thinking about you hurts. Having any lingering trace of you in her life would hurt.

He decided that it would be better if he didn't have contact with you either. He was going to stick by her side.

You're proud of him. And thankful that she always has him looking out for her.

You can't bear the thought of them seeing you like this anyway.

Things are bad.

But it's always worse before it gets better.

And it does get better.

It just takes time.

You're 19, going on 20 and your ribs no longer poke out jaggedly against your flesh.

There's fat on your stomach.

Your face is less gaunt. Your skin less sallow looking.

You like to read.

You like to sew.

There's a gym downtown that you like to go to, with a large studio on the floor where you can practise ballet.

You and your family often have barbecues in your backyard when it's warm out.

Sometimes you like to sit by your open window for hours and listen to the birds. There's a bluejay that really likes you.

You're 19, going on 20 and you're lying in the grass as the sun lulls you to sleep.

It's getting you, you can feel it. But you can still hear the birds, the breeze, the kids yelling from three doors down.

And then you hear it.

But you almost don't believe it.

It's a voice that you're advised to avoid.

It crops up on television sometimes and it hurts to listen to.

That being said, you still torture yourself by not reaching for the remote control right away.

You're desperate for that voice to fill your ears again. You know that you might be weak enough to beg for it.

But it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

The voice is soft, tentatively so. And the single word wobbles like she's about to cry.

But as shattered as it sounds, it's a word that you utterly adore on her lips.

"Hunter?"

#La La Land Machine AU #huntlow #(idk why i wrote this whole thing in second person. it just kinda happened. im not in charge of this brain i just work here)#(spent like days talking about all this shit with Giuls. thank you Giuls)#abuse tw #ed tw #(honestly the second person pov might be triggering. read at your own risk.)

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