Lisa swears that I don’t sleep anymore. We try to smirk about it, like it’s just another ‘spooky’ corner of my mind for the critics to probe into and giggle about and try to understand. I’m starting to believe her.

I don’t need sleep. I live for nights. Which could explain why, while the rest of the crew and staff and actors and everyone with sense went home for some time with their loved ones, I’m sitting in a studio with most of the lights off waiting for the only other person still here.

It’s not so bad. Gives me some private time with my creations, anyway.

The executive chair creaks when I unfold myself from it and stand. My shadow falls over the table full of clay figures, the products of weeks of work. My dreams in a nutshell; there, but breakable in a glance, in the studio’s whims. I’m surprised Disney let us get this far. I keep waiting for the call that says to stop the production, some executive has decided that it’s not worth completing. Wouldn’t be the first time.

I kneel on the floor in front of the table so I can see the figures better. They’re macabre, in some cases outright disturbing. It’s fitting; I expected nothing less, really. Reaching out, I touch the nearest figure with my fingertips, delicately as I can. One wrong move, and I could bring this all crashing down. It’s always like that.

I murmur to the grimacing skeleton figure, dressed up in Santa’s clothes, “Hello, Jack.”

The door opens behind me with a quiet click. My hand twitches on Jack, nearly unbalancing him. Then I pull away, and glance over my shoulder at the man in the doorway. He doesn’t seem all the surprised to see me talking to a figurine. Considering that I’ve seen him have discussions with marionettes, I suppose that’s not surprising. Not much catches Danny off guard.

“It’s done.”

His voice sounds raspy, like it always does after he finishes composing, as if the music was torn out of him. He looks like he’s ready to see the inside of the bodybag. His clothes are hanging off of him, his hair’s sticking in eight different directions, and his eye sockets looked hollowed out in his already-pale skin. His eyes are fever-bright. I’ve learned not to worry about that.

Getting up, I reward him with a near-smile. He shrugs off praise; it makes him edgy. I’m not used to pouring it on anyway. “Show me.”

When I get close, he catches my arm. That’s new; we don’t touch much, like we don’t usually call each other by name. We don’t have to. That manic, I’m-going-to-slaughter-someone-with-a-chainsaw grin is starting up on his face, and I can’t help smirking back. This movie is ours, no matter who else had their hands in it or whose name shows up in the credit. It belongs to us. And it’s done.

Danny nearly drags me through the studio. His grip is tight on my arm, probably bruising. I don’t push him away.

The temperature drops about twenty degrees when we go from the hallway to his studio. I blow out a breath, half expecting to see it in the air. Either he doesn’t see or he just ignores it, like he ignores all the crew who complain about working in cold conditions. It keeps him alert; that’s all he cares about.

Still tugging on me like an enthusiastic child, he points at the piano bench. I sit down, earning myself a distracted nod before he picks up the sheet of notes like something precious and plunks himself down beside me. He doesn’t crack his knuckles, doesn’t go through any theatrics, just puts his hands on the keys and starts playing.

It’s just the bare bones of the thing, just piano, none of the orchestra that he seems to delight in.

It’s perfect.

It flows, dark and beautiful and skewed, as only he can do it. He knew what would fit better than I did, and put it there. Something clicks into place, and for the first time since deadlines started cracking down, I smile.

The piano fades out slowly, leaving only echoing silence. Danny doesn’t look up from his hands on the keys when he asks, “So?”

Somebody who didn’t know him wouldn’t catch the anxiety or the impatience in his voice. I lay my chin on my hand and tap a piano key once, to watch him tense. Lifting my eyes, I smirk at him. “We’re done.”

He’s been up too long; it takes a second for him to realize what I just said. He blinks at me, then slowly starts to grin. Letting his head fall back, he closes his eyes, a chuckle rising in his throat. It turns into an all-out maniacal laugh that rings off the walls like strange music. He rocks with it, his eyes closed and his head swaying gently on that long white neck. When it starts dying down, it’s just because he ran out of air.

Putting his hands on his thighs, he half-doubles over, still chuckling between gasps. I put my hand on his back and feel him shaking. I know the feeling too well.

All stories end. No matter how much time and emotion you pour into the words and characters and music, it has to stop sometime. You bring them into the world, and bury them again while they’re still screaming for another taste of life. Nobody mentions that creation hurts like a bitch.

Most people would cry. Danny laughs like he belongs in a room with padded walls. Either way it’s like bloodletting. Orgasm. Release.

He puts his head in his hands and sighs hard. My hand moves with his breath.

“I need a cigarette.”

“You don’t smoke.”

“So?” Steepling long fingers, he half-smiles at me, already recovering and waiting for me to pull my hand back. When I poke him in the back, he asks, “What?”

“Sing something.” It’s an impulse, and the words fall past my lips like a dead insect, crisp and brittle.

“Yeah, right.”

“Danny.”

The sound of his name stops him. He gives me a strange look, his near constant expression of cynical amusement faltering. “Why?”

He deserves an honest answer, so I give him one. “I don’t know.”

With another long look, he shrugs and does it. His voice is painful to hear and more painful to sing with, rough enough that I wonder why he isn’t spitting up blood. His twisted sense of humor just makes it worse. Catherine’s reedy little voice can’t compare to Danny on sleep-deprivation.

“I sense there’s something in the wind that feels like tragedy at hand…”

He’s lost himself again, eyes half-closed.

“And though I’d like to stand by him, can’t shake this feeling that I have…”

Something tugs at me, deep and hard. The little demons start up again, urging me to…

“The worse is just around the bend…”

Just once, Tim. All we want is just one time.

“And does he notice my feelings for him, and will he see how much he means to me?”

My hand reaches out. He doesn’t look up, oblivious to the world outside his head.

“I think it’s not to be-“

I touch him, and his head jerks up, anger flaring in his eyes because I burst his little world. Before he can pull away, I lean forward and put my lips on his.

His lips are cold and stiff under mine. It’s like kissing a corpse. His breath tastes like sour coffee aftertaste, the only thing warm about him. I’ve still got this urge to touch him, run my hands through ridiculously bright hair and over cadaver-pale skin. I don’t even feel like this for Lisa. I hate it.

So I sink my teeth into his lip.

He twitches against me, making this low strangled noise that I can’t even try to define. Then he pulls away, leaving me cold as he stands up. Blood trickles down to his chin, and I want to lick it away. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“Tim.” The raspy, ragged word doesn’t give anything away.

I just look at him, tasting his blood hot and metallic on my tongue.

For a second, I can see the words written on his face. Then the walls slam down with a clank. The room drops a few degrees in temperature. Odd, considering the way his eyes are starting to reflect back my Hell.
Shaking his head, he turns his back on me and, without so much as a glance over his shoulder, walks out. Some distant sense part of me notes that it’s a good thing he finished the score first. He’s not coming back.

I turn back to the piano, feeling cracked and hollow inside even while my mind conjures up excuses for Danny walking off the set. Creative differences. Brotherly argument. Stress.

My heart hurts, and I hate him.

I sit in the studio until the next morning, listening to the ringing silence and not feeling the bitter cold. My mouth tastes like blood and old coffee, and my fingers stroke the piano keys until long after I can’t feel his warmth anymore.

I’m empty.