Logs:Vignette - Red Carpet
| Vignette - Red Carpet | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 2019-02-10 The biggest night in music. Maybe not quite according to plan. |
| Location
Staples Center, Los Angeles | |
It's been a long day even before hitting the red carpet. A string of interviews, each riding the tightrope line between cocky-enough (he has an image to upkeep, after all) and staying on this side of arrogant (he's still a queer brown man and he hasn't won yet.) A flurry of stylists, a distinct lack of a single proper meal. He steps out onto the red carpet to a blur of noise, flashes, microphones. It washes over him, around him, muted and distant through no fault of his powers. His smile isn't muted -- bright, bold. He answers questions about the designer who clad him in shimmering green-on-black brocade. Answers questions about his equally brightly-colored date -- Jackson outshines him by far. Answers questions about his hopes, his nerves, his favorite violin. One after another they start to blur together. Truth be told, so do the awards. Song of the Year, Best New Artist, Record of the Year. Once and again and again he gets up, blows kisses, issues his dutiful just-surprised-enough, just-overwhelmed-enough thanks. Even the performance runs its way into the rest of the night. As if he hasn't been performing this whole damn time. Jackson squeezes his hand tight when it's time for the last, presses a firm kiss to Ryan's knuckles, heedless of the myriad cameras that will no doubt jump at the chance to misinterpret this affection. He almost misses it -- almost would have missed it if not for Jax's prompting, nudging him up and out of his seat for the last time once Album of the Year is called. Announced. His smile fixes in place, firm and steady rather unlike his steps as he heads once more up to stage. "This is -- man. I feel like I've already given my thanks to so many people and it still can't begin to touch on what I'm feeling tonight. It's been a rough couple years -- I know lots of my fans have felt it, too. More than anything, I've wanted to make music for everyone struggling against our country's headlong charge into fascism. Wanted to make music to live by, music to fight by. Music to bring you all hope that we can get through this -- even when our neighbors, our leaders, the <censored> President are putting our families in camps and telling the world we aren't worth it." He pauses, looking out across the crowd. Eyes briefly fixing on the row he's just vacated. Beside Ryan's empty seat, Jax is bright and easily spotted in his purple tuxedo, deep peacock-hued hair. He sits up a little straighter -- meets Ryan's gaze steadily. Drawing a deep breath, chin lifting, Ryan grips his trophy tighter and plunges ahead. "And what I do, I wouldn't have been able to get here without my communities behind me. Without all the amazing Latine and queer artists who have come before me. And I'm hoping I can make it a little bit easier -- for all the mutant ones who'll come after." The stirring of gasps that ripple through the crowd, the murmurs, these are allowed to hang only for a moment before noticeably dimming, not standing in the way of his denouement. "It's been a damn hard road, and it's not looking to get easier. I'm so, so thankful to the people who've been loud and brave in fighting for us up till now. My best friend, Jackson Holland -- one of the most tireless mutant advocates I know -- it was my song about him that got me here today. Between talk of registration, deportation, people wanting to lock us up just for existing, it's more important than ever to let the world know that we're here, and we're not going to be silenced." Holding the trophy high, stepping down off the stage to a discomfited silence that, now, belongs entirely to the audience and not to him. His smile comes easier as he heads back to his seat, the path in front of him crisp and clear for the first time all night. | |
