1 Unappreciated Genius Dumped by Pretty Boy (No Homo)

"I just want to point out I saw it coming. With the advent of auto-tuning, I saw the beginning of the end of the real true musicians out there. Hell, who here remember Vocaloids? They had a FREAKING CONCERT out there for A PROGRAM. When Symphoids started hitting the market, I knew we were finally done." -- Axel Phears, Bassist for the band Complex//G.O.D.//Complex

I should have suspected something. Really, it was my own fault for not being paranoid enough. Tristan was never one for big gestures and taking me out to Vicarno's, one of the more upscale restaurants in downtown, was definitely a warning sign. He was too much of a cheapskate for something like this.

A dropping sensation in my chest seemed appropriate to new cold feeling in my stomach.

I refused to give in to despair. I wanted a freaking explanation.

I gritted my teeth as I looked up at him from across the table.

"You're dropping me? Are you freaking kidding me?" I seethed through gritted teeth.

Tristan pursed his lips as his wide boyish eyes darted away from meeting my own. "I'm sorry, bro. The producer said that I could really sell and they want to see more of what I can do with some of their songwriters. They say most of the songs you wrote... They just aren't a good fit for me."

He flashed me a weak smile, one that was supposed to invoke sympathy.

Too bad I seen it too many times before whenever he tried to break it off with his girlfriends over the years on the whole 'it's not you, it's me' speech. Funny enough, it worked well for him.

Tristan "Tryst" Burke. Freaking pretty boy.

I only narrowed my eyes at him. "I wrote you that hit that brought you up on MeCircle. You can't feed me that crap and cut me loose," I said in a low tone while clenching my fists tight on the utensils in my hands. "What? You don't want to bring me in on that fifty-fifty? Whatever happened to the whole 'if we make it, we get in together'?"

His eyes moved away from the candles alit on the table across from us back onto his plate where he fidgeted with the baked salmon. "I meant it, Donny. I really did," Tristan said in a quiet voice before looking back up at me with pleading eyes. "But come on, this is what I always dreamed about. What we dreamed out since we were in middle school, man.

"If I tell them that if they don't take the both of us, they'll drop me too and then what? If I lose this chance, who knows if another one will come?" He looked up from his plate and offered that same smile again. I wanted nothing more than to shove the fork in my hand down his throat and watch him choke.

"You're my bro, Don. Please say you understand." The puppy dog look was starting to get nauseating and it did nothing to quell the feeling in my chest. Screw this.

I slammed my utensils on the table in heated frustration and shoved the table to where it dug into Tristan's ribs as I got up from the table. "Save it. I should have known you were going to sell out and ditch me. Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame before you crash and burn, ass. I know I'm going to enjoy the flames," I growled.

Tristan continued to look down at his food pitifully and, try as I could to try to enjoy his shame and embarrassment on ditching me, the fact that I was going to mess out on the fame and money that should have been rightfully mine bugged me.

I snorted and turned my eyes from the vapid pretty boy before storming out the restaurant.

Crap.

It was then when I stood at the curb, the entrance of the restaurant, that I remembered that Tristan was the one who drove us to the place. I knew the amount of money left in my bank account. I barely had enough money for laundry, much less the money to call up a cab.

I looked back through the window of the establishment to catch the scene where Tristan was still dolefully picking away at his food like some kind of petulant child who didn't get his way.

Screw him. I don't need him.

I pulled up the hoodie of my jacket over my head and stuck my hands into its pockets to put off the brooding look to ward off the bypassers' stares at the scene that I had caused. Image is important, after all.

Then, I started on the two-hour trek that would take me back home to my apartment.