It's been a bit unfortunately
It's hard for me to believe that I only finished one story from that entire break from the internet. I must have not been feeling that well, nor am I feeling that well right now.
Title: You Should Say It Right Now
Rating: R
Pairings: Keith/Mick
Word Count: 2687
Disclaimer Never happened. Fake, fake, fake.
Mick is suspended upon the bed, his weight making the bed sag under its pressure. No intonation pushed past his prominent lips, his eyes remaining forward. Lissome and thin wrists lay useless in his lap; fingers wound together do to nervous jitters. He forwarded the notion of winding and unwinding them, just a nervous habit he picked up. His head leaned down and his eyes stared at the floor. There was nothing interesting there to inspect, yet he did not want to tear his eyes away from the floral, spiral-patterned designs imprinted on the carpet. He allowed a tight-lipped breath to wearily escape his body. He would not look up, just in fear of seeing him.
Keith was sitting across the room, his body aligned with Mick’s in almost perfect symmetry. Maple eyes were half-lidded, pupils shrunken to pinpoint dots. The younger boy’s lips were pulled back, a small frown implied within its delineation. He spent a good amount of time just sitting there, doing nothing of particular interest, only here because of a clouded purpose told him to remain here. He occasionally would raise his hooded eyes, his fringe hanging low into his sight, just to even dare to peer out at the man across from him, that boy with lips smeared with red, bloodied with a doxy woman’s choice of lipstick. A surge of anger and churlishness rushed him and he childishly tore his eyes away to glare at another part of the room. He would repeat this feat again.
Still, he wondered, why is he still here? If he could not stand being in the same vicinity as this person, why torture himself to staying? His mind would reason, and then give up in trying to convince him to move. His body was feeling particularly indolent and defiant against his mind. His fingers twitched, his own chipped nails grazing against his flesh. He turned his eyes to the side, hoping to focus on something. A wretched boil of bitterness churned within his gut, threatening to leak from his pores.
He hated him. Keith hated everything about Mick that the single body could offer. Every little detail that made up Mick just left him feeling anger. His hands, his face, that stupid twinkle he would get when he thought of something particularly clever or some lyric, how he strutted when he walked, everything. He could not stand how he was moving up, how he was abandoning everything around him, what had made him in the first place, all for a chic lifestyle that he was favoring. It was not how he remembered Mick. At least, not the one he knew years back. That humble smile he would give him. Keith still observed the body in front of him, poised on the other side of the room. Mick was just staring at nothing, and from what Keith could tell, he was so interested in the floor.
Mick could feel those eyes on him, burning into him. He rotated his head, peering out at the heavy, glass ash tray, lined with used cigarettes, a ring of lipstick circling a few of them. He wanted to grab one, just taking in those harsh chemicals that made up that cancer stick, knowing it could help him out in relieving himself of the pent up stress that his body harbored. Cerulean eyes caught sight of another object, his stomach turning over at the sight of it. A needle, used or not, he was not sure, lay to the side. He bit his lip, knowing what it was and how it is used. He had seen the marks on Keith’s arms, he had seen them on Marianne’s, on Anita’s. This… was fashionable among those people he had considered close to him-- well, maybe not Anita, but to other’s that he knew. The cinnamon-haired boy had glimpsed those rotting petals on their flesh; his hands would recoil in disgust.
He dared to look up this time, blue eyes hesitating. He would regret it when meeting those chocolate eyes head on, feeling the searing hatred brewing deeply in them. His breath seizes up and his breathing becomes shallow. He turns away again, opting to stare down at the floor again.
Keith is sick of this constant-- what he believes-- mind game that Mick is employing. With a dissatisfied click of his teeth, he ascends to his feet, the bed lowly emitting a sound to signal he is off. The rooster-haired boy simply tires of trying to stay interested. He just decides to smirk and walks off to the side of the drawer, fingers reaching to dig through its contents for that one thing he sole desired right now. He catches Mick’s attention and the boy gazed up to see what Keith is up to. Mick wants to say something, but he cannot think of anything, nor does anything want to congeal in his mind. His mouth is like a wasteland of sand. Keith’s arms move around, rustling objects inside before retracting them and Mick can’t help but need to gag.
Keith pulls out another needle, the instrument making Mick not feel at ease. Keith turns around and smiles at him. This smile chills Mick to his bones. There is nothing in this smile, just a cold and empty statue.
“Keith,” Mick finally manages to say something, causing Keith to look at him. Keith suddenly folds his legs and sits cross-legged on the floor, still looking at Mick with some type of inquiry.
So now, they just stare at each other. Mick is the first to moves, shifting his weight and allowing himself to focus on Keith. Without breaking his sight on Mick, Keith maneuvers the needle with precision and accuracy over to his arm, inserts the needle without as much as a flinch, and withdraws it. The other boy’s breathe hitches and he wants to cry. Keith smirks at him, his smile full of something victorious. Now, he just sits there.
“Y’know, Mick,” Keith says precipitously, a lazy quality etched into his voice. “I’ve been thinking about a few things, and I just can’t seem to think them through.”
Mick waits for a break, a quality that will tell him whether Keith is finished with his impending speech or soon-to-be ramble. “And I just can’t think of an answer either.”
“And what?” Mick allows this saying to leave his body, not sure what to expect anymore. He now mentally prepares himself, knowing just how sharp and fast Keith can get with insults and just how fast it could reduce him to tears.
“This heroin thing I’m doing,” Keith says without any noticeable change in his voice. “It’s interesting. It’s supposed to be a downer, but I don’t feel down, but a bit sick; it always makes me want to throw-up when I first take it. That’s what’s interesting.”
Mick sucks on his own bottom lip, feeling anxiety run through his body. The older boy is not sure what to do anymore.
“And y’know,” Keith draws out slowly, “you got me started with it.”
All conscious thought in Mick’s brain shattered and fell away almost at an instant. Keith was definitely in the mood for something. Mick had been away filming that damn movie. With his precious Anita. He did not like sitting at home, knowing what they were doing and how they were doing that. What made him more shocked was how willingly Mick did that. He already knew how much Mick had disliked Anita and really would not dream of doing that. Another factor that made him so pissed was that Marianne was also pregnant. How could someone just go behind their lady’s back and go screw their best mate’s girl?
Nevertheless, that happened a few months ago. Why was he still holding this petty grudge when it was in the past? It may have been the English way of not speaking about it, just letting it pass without mentioning it in hopes of it fading away into obscurity. But knowing how Keith’s mind could throw itself into overdrive, he would constantly think about it. It wasn’t as if past instances where he wouldn’t care actually, but this time, he couldn’t help but feel that Anita crossed-- no, Mick crossed the line. Not Anita-- why the fuck would he think Anita had crossed the line?
However, another voice in Keith’s mind spoke up, that he was doing the same thing; he had no reason to talk. He had already stolen Anita from Brian. Keith did the same things that Mick was doing previously, just minus the pregnant thing. He was being a hypocrite right now, but he did not care anymore. He is just filled with a sour rage and the sight of that fat-lipped boy in front of him only made him feel more agitated.
“How did I do that?” Mick finally dared to talk.
Keith shrugs his shoulders, his mind no longer dogged on that subject anymore. He allowed his eyes to roam the body poised in front of him, taking in the shape and contours the body in front of him had to offer. He smirked again, his expression giving off a satisfied leer. He began to raise his body, commanding a menacing stance. He moved his legs, advancing onto Mick. His arms lay limp beside him, just swaying to his movement.
“Maybe you should think of what happens when you go and shag your best friend’s girl. Maybe you should think how they feel about it, but you probably don‘t care anyway.”
Keith moved in closer, his face becoming a mix between imperturbable and predatory gaze. He was in front of Mick now, just standing over him. Mick sat staunchly in front of him, not moving, his eyes probing for answers. Keith leaned down, moving his knees on the bed, pushing himself up to meet the body in front of him. In return, Mick moves back with the movements, his breath hitching when he saw Keith’s tiny, button-sized pupils. Keith pressed himself forwards, moving Mick back to lay flat on his back.
“You know what, Mick?” Keith says, not waiting for an answer. “If you weren’t so fucking gorgeous, I would’ve already punched you. I would have hurt you for even laying a finger on Anita. But as I said, you’re very pretty, that I could just forget what you did. That and this heroin thing helps out.”
Mick could not tell anymore. The room grew warmer and Keith’s face was in front his, his mouth on the flesh covering his neck, the stubble on the guitarist’s face gazing him. Keith moved down before Mick knew it, he saw Keith pull back and watched his eyes roll back, his body collapsing on top of his. Light snores fell out of the younger boy’s mouth, the only sign showing that he was still alive by the light rising of his chest. Mick sat up, moving Keith body gently and sadly staring at him.
Mick fished for a packet of cigarette’s, lighting one up and letting the nicotine saturate his blood again. Infrequently Mick would glance back to Keith, watching the boy slightly grumble about something in his heroin-induced sleep. Mick would not really move, opting to stay next to Keith until he rose from his sleep. Mick leaned down and grazed his lips on Keith’s forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he lowly whispered. He let his face linger a little while before pulling away.
He stood up to head into the bathroom and stopped as he passed in front of the mirror. He granted himself permission to turn and look into the mirror. He saw the same pair of blue eyes stare back at him, the same lips with red smudged on them, the same pale skin. The singer watched as the smoke from his cigarette lilted away, dissipating into nothing, just as he was feeling like he were nothing. He still watched himself, just waiting for a sign to tell him that he was dreaming.
He took a moment to glim back into the bedroom, seeing that Keith was still passed out on the bed. Wet trails leaked from his eyes, dragging tracks of dark eye pencil down his cheeks. He sighed roughly and stubbed out the cigarette in the sink and leaving it there. He balanced himself back on the bed, staring at Keith, then to the discarded syringe on the floor. Maybe Keith would shoot up again and possibly overdose on it. Maybe Anita or Marianne would do it. It certainly would not matter seeing that Keith was assimilating into the junkie lifestyle that was now budding inside the music scene.
Maybe he should join the young guitarist in these cold arms of the heroin muse. Maybe he would not feel as left out of the loop and could relate more with Keith, but he could not do that. The singer leaned in, laid himself beside Keith, and tucked the covers in with both of them. Perhaps Keith could tell maybe, just one day, that Mick was and is willing to do almost anything for Keith, even if it meant possibly following him into a haze of drugs and other detrimental habits. He will have to cover for Keith in the future because there is no way that he can get by this without someone noticing. Mick will try everything in his power to keep Keith on his toes.
Mick stares at the ceiling, watching the dried paint. He unenthusiastically sighs and stares to the side, Keith barely even moving. Mick sits up again, and carefully studies him. Keith is so still and calm, almost deathly for Mick’s taste. He pulls the duvet off him and softly places his hand upon Keith mouth. There is a light breath exhaling from his nose and Mick pulls away from it. Still, he cannot believe that Keith is so silent and unmoving. It’s not natural to him.
He cannot bear it again, deciding to scoop Keith up gently and hold him to his chest, burying his head into the slope of his neck and shoulder, arms securing themselves around Keith’s thin waist. Keith barely stirs, a string of subdued words emitting from his body, but nothing happening to signify that his body has acknowledged the move at all. It only further breaks Mick’s heart into more pieces.
Mick untangles himself from Keith, laying the guitarist back on the bed and striding into the kitchen, setting himself up a piece of paper and pen. He writes now; writes as if he has never written before. It is all he can do right now, not giving into the temptation to do what Keith just did. If he does, then it will just end up being a bad experience. A forte in which he would not recover. Keith can have his needle and spoon.
Mick believed that with this one last glance at Keith, somewhere deep in his mind believing that Keith would raise from his sleep. Nothing happened. He sighed heavily and turned back to his pad of paper. Perhaps another time he would do this because his mind is in shambles over Keith. Mick’s one best friend and lover lying prone over on the bed, softly snoring in what could have been his last breath. Mick hates seeing Keith so pathetic looking and it rattles him. That strong boy. That boy who lived down the street, who he played in with the sand box, shared his first joint with, who shared his love of blues music, who he gave his first kiss to which would lead to their first ecstasy filled night. Now Mick was not so sure he could recognize who that was anymore.
Mick sighs again and lets his head loll back, allowing that moisture that pooled in his eyes to leak down his face once more that night, just hoping and praying that all would be nothing but a dream. But he knew that it wouldn’t be the same as a few years ago would be. Not now, not ever. He’ll just have to adapt to this new Keith.
Title: You Should Say It Right Now
Rating: R
Pairings: Keith/Mick
Word Count: 2687
Disclaimer Never happened. Fake, fake, fake.
Mick is suspended upon the bed, his weight making the bed sag under its pressure. No intonation pushed past his prominent lips, his eyes remaining forward. Lissome and thin wrists lay useless in his lap; fingers wound together do to nervous jitters. He forwarded the notion of winding and unwinding them, just a nervous habit he picked up. His head leaned down and his eyes stared at the floor. There was nothing interesting there to inspect, yet he did not want to tear his eyes away from the floral, spiral-patterned designs imprinted on the carpet. He allowed a tight-lipped breath to wearily escape his body. He would not look up, just in fear of seeing him.
Keith was sitting across the room, his body aligned with Mick’s in almost perfect symmetry. Maple eyes were half-lidded, pupils shrunken to pinpoint dots. The younger boy’s lips were pulled back, a small frown implied within its delineation. He spent a good amount of time just sitting there, doing nothing of particular interest, only here because of a clouded purpose told him to remain here. He occasionally would raise his hooded eyes, his fringe hanging low into his sight, just to even dare to peer out at the man across from him, that boy with lips smeared with red, bloodied with a doxy woman’s choice of lipstick. A surge of anger and churlishness rushed him and he childishly tore his eyes away to glare at another part of the room. He would repeat this feat again.
Still, he wondered, why is he still here? If he could not stand being in the same vicinity as this person, why torture himself to staying? His mind would reason, and then give up in trying to convince him to move. His body was feeling particularly indolent and defiant against his mind. His fingers twitched, his own chipped nails grazing against his flesh. He turned his eyes to the side, hoping to focus on something. A wretched boil of bitterness churned within his gut, threatening to leak from his pores.
He hated him. Keith hated everything about Mick that the single body could offer. Every little detail that made up Mick just left him feeling anger. His hands, his face, that stupid twinkle he would get when he thought of something particularly clever or some lyric, how he strutted when he walked, everything. He could not stand how he was moving up, how he was abandoning everything around him, what had made him in the first place, all for a chic lifestyle that he was favoring. It was not how he remembered Mick. At least, not the one he knew years back. That humble smile he would give him. Keith still observed the body in front of him, poised on the other side of the room. Mick was just staring at nothing, and from what Keith could tell, he was so interested in the floor.
Mick could feel those eyes on him, burning into him. He rotated his head, peering out at the heavy, glass ash tray, lined with used cigarettes, a ring of lipstick circling a few of them. He wanted to grab one, just taking in those harsh chemicals that made up that cancer stick, knowing it could help him out in relieving himself of the pent up stress that his body harbored. Cerulean eyes caught sight of another object, his stomach turning over at the sight of it. A needle, used or not, he was not sure, lay to the side. He bit his lip, knowing what it was and how it is used. He had seen the marks on Keith’s arms, he had seen them on Marianne’s, on Anita’s. This… was fashionable among those people he had considered close to him-- well, maybe not Anita, but to other’s that he knew. The cinnamon-haired boy had glimpsed those rotting petals on their flesh; his hands would recoil in disgust.
He dared to look up this time, blue eyes hesitating. He would regret it when meeting those chocolate eyes head on, feeling the searing hatred brewing deeply in them. His breath seizes up and his breathing becomes shallow. He turns away again, opting to stare down at the floor again.
Keith is sick of this constant-- what he believes-- mind game that Mick is employing. With a dissatisfied click of his teeth, he ascends to his feet, the bed lowly emitting a sound to signal he is off. The rooster-haired boy simply tires of trying to stay interested. He just decides to smirk and walks off to the side of the drawer, fingers reaching to dig through its contents for that one thing he sole desired right now. He catches Mick’s attention and the boy gazed up to see what Keith is up to. Mick wants to say something, but he cannot think of anything, nor does anything want to congeal in his mind. His mouth is like a wasteland of sand. Keith’s arms move around, rustling objects inside before retracting them and Mick can’t help but need to gag.
Keith pulls out another needle, the instrument making Mick not feel at ease. Keith turns around and smiles at him. This smile chills Mick to his bones. There is nothing in this smile, just a cold and empty statue.
“Keith,” Mick finally manages to say something, causing Keith to look at him. Keith suddenly folds his legs and sits cross-legged on the floor, still looking at Mick with some type of inquiry.
So now, they just stare at each other. Mick is the first to moves, shifting his weight and allowing himself to focus on Keith. Without breaking his sight on Mick, Keith maneuvers the needle with precision and accuracy over to his arm, inserts the needle without as much as a flinch, and withdraws it. The other boy’s breathe hitches and he wants to cry. Keith smirks at him, his smile full of something victorious. Now, he just sits there.
“Y’know, Mick,” Keith says precipitously, a lazy quality etched into his voice. “I’ve been thinking about a few things, and I just can’t seem to think them through.”
Mick waits for a break, a quality that will tell him whether Keith is finished with his impending speech or soon-to-be ramble. “And I just can’t think of an answer either.”
“And what?” Mick allows this saying to leave his body, not sure what to expect anymore. He now mentally prepares himself, knowing just how sharp and fast Keith can get with insults and just how fast it could reduce him to tears.
“This heroin thing I’m doing,” Keith says without any noticeable change in his voice. “It’s interesting. It’s supposed to be a downer, but I don’t feel down, but a bit sick; it always makes me want to throw-up when I first take it. That’s what’s interesting.”
Mick sucks on his own bottom lip, feeling anxiety run through his body. The older boy is not sure what to do anymore.
“And y’know,” Keith draws out slowly, “you got me started with it.”
All conscious thought in Mick’s brain shattered and fell away almost at an instant. Keith was definitely in the mood for something. Mick had been away filming that damn movie. With his precious Anita. He did not like sitting at home, knowing what they were doing and how they were doing that. What made him more shocked was how willingly Mick did that. He already knew how much Mick had disliked Anita and really would not dream of doing that. Another factor that made him so pissed was that Marianne was also pregnant. How could someone just go behind their lady’s back and go screw their best mate’s girl?
Nevertheless, that happened a few months ago. Why was he still holding this petty grudge when it was in the past? It may have been the English way of not speaking about it, just letting it pass without mentioning it in hopes of it fading away into obscurity. But knowing how Keith’s mind could throw itself into overdrive, he would constantly think about it. It wasn’t as if past instances where he wouldn’t care actually, but this time, he couldn’t help but feel that Anita crossed-- no, Mick crossed the line. Not Anita-- why the fuck would he think Anita had crossed the line?
However, another voice in Keith’s mind spoke up, that he was doing the same thing; he had no reason to talk. He had already stolen Anita from Brian. Keith did the same things that Mick was doing previously, just minus the pregnant thing. He was being a hypocrite right now, but he did not care anymore. He is just filled with a sour rage and the sight of that fat-lipped boy in front of him only made him feel more agitated.
“How did I do that?” Mick finally dared to talk.
Keith shrugs his shoulders, his mind no longer dogged on that subject anymore. He allowed his eyes to roam the body poised in front of him, taking in the shape and contours the body in front of him had to offer. He smirked again, his expression giving off a satisfied leer. He began to raise his body, commanding a menacing stance. He moved his legs, advancing onto Mick. His arms lay limp beside him, just swaying to his movement.
“Maybe you should think of what happens when you go and shag your best friend’s girl. Maybe you should think how they feel about it, but you probably don‘t care anyway.”
Keith moved in closer, his face becoming a mix between imperturbable and predatory gaze. He was in front of Mick now, just standing over him. Mick sat staunchly in front of him, not moving, his eyes probing for answers. Keith leaned down, moving his knees on the bed, pushing himself up to meet the body in front of him. In return, Mick moves back with the movements, his breath hitching when he saw Keith’s tiny, button-sized pupils. Keith pressed himself forwards, moving Mick back to lay flat on his back.
“You know what, Mick?” Keith says, not waiting for an answer. “If you weren’t so fucking gorgeous, I would’ve already punched you. I would have hurt you for even laying a finger on Anita. But as I said, you’re very pretty, that I could just forget what you did. That and this heroin thing helps out.”
Mick could not tell anymore. The room grew warmer and Keith’s face was in front his, his mouth on the flesh covering his neck, the stubble on the guitarist’s face gazing him. Keith moved down before Mick knew it, he saw Keith pull back and watched his eyes roll back, his body collapsing on top of his. Light snores fell out of the younger boy’s mouth, the only sign showing that he was still alive by the light rising of his chest. Mick sat up, moving Keith body gently and sadly staring at him.
Mick fished for a packet of cigarette’s, lighting one up and letting the nicotine saturate his blood again. Infrequently Mick would glance back to Keith, watching the boy slightly grumble about something in his heroin-induced sleep. Mick would not really move, opting to stay next to Keith until he rose from his sleep. Mick leaned down and grazed his lips on Keith’s forehead.
“I’m sorry,” he lowly whispered. He let his face linger a little while before pulling away.
He stood up to head into the bathroom and stopped as he passed in front of the mirror. He granted himself permission to turn and look into the mirror. He saw the same pair of blue eyes stare back at him, the same lips with red smudged on them, the same pale skin. The singer watched as the smoke from his cigarette lilted away, dissipating into nothing, just as he was feeling like he were nothing. He still watched himself, just waiting for a sign to tell him that he was dreaming.
He took a moment to glim back into the bedroom, seeing that Keith was still passed out on the bed. Wet trails leaked from his eyes, dragging tracks of dark eye pencil down his cheeks. He sighed roughly and stubbed out the cigarette in the sink and leaving it there. He balanced himself back on the bed, staring at Keith, then to the discarded syringe on the floor. Maybe Keith would shoot up again and possibly overdose on it. Maybe Anita or Marianne would do it. It certainly would not matter seeing that Keith was assimilating into the junkie lifestyle that was now budding inside the music scene.
Maybe he should join the young guitarist in these cold arms of the heroin muse. Maybe he would not feel as left out of the loop and could relate more with Keith, but he could not do that. The singer leaned in, laid himself beside Keith, and tucked the covers in with both of them. Perhaps Keith could tell maybe, just one day, that Mick was and is willing to do almost anything for Keith, even if it meant possibly following him into a haze of drugs and other detrimental habits. He will have to cover for Keith in the future because there is no way that he can get by this without someone noticing. Mick will try everything in his power to keep Keith on his toes.
Mick stares at the ceiling, watching the dried paint. He unenthusiastically sighs and stares to the side, Keith barely even moving. Mick sits up again, and carefully studies him. Keith is so still and calm, almost deathly for Mick’s taste. He pulls the duvet off him and softly places his hand upon Keith mouth. There is a light breath exhaling from his nose and Mick pulls away from it. Still, he cannot believe that Keith is so silent and unmoving. It’s not natural to him.
He cannot bear it again, deciding to scoop Keith up gently and hold him to his chest, burying his head into the slope of his neck and shoulder, arms securing themselves around Keith’s thin waist. Keith barely stirs, a string of subdued words emitting from his body, but nothing happening to signify that his body has acknowledged the move at all. It only further breaks Mick’s heart into more pieces.
Mick untangles himself from Keith, laying the guitarist back on the bed and striding into the kitchen, setting himself up a piece of paper and pen. He writes now; writes as if he has never written before. It is all he can do right now, not giving into the temptation to do what Keith just did. If he does, then it will just end up being a bad experience. A forte in which he would not recover. Keith can have his needle and spoon.
Mick believed that with this one last glance at Keith, somewhere deep in his mind believing that Keith would raise from his sleep. Nothing happened. He sighed heavily and turned back to his pad of paper. Perhaps another time he would do this because his mind is in shambles over Keith. Mick’s one best friend and lover lying prone over on the bed, softly snoring in what could have been his last breath. Mick hates seeing Keith so pathetic looking and it rattles him. That strong boy. That boy who lived down the street, who he played in with the sand box, shared his first joint with, who shared his love of blues music, who he gave his first kiss to which would lead to their first ecstasy filled night. Now Mick was not so sure he could recognize who that was anymore.
Mick sighs again and lets his head loll back, allowing that moisture that pooled in his eyes to leak down his face once more that night, just hoping and praying that all would be nothing but a dream. But he knew that it wouldn’t be the same as a few years ago would be. Not now, not ever. He’ll just have to adapt to this new Keith.