A story that does not mention Keith? What?
I was inspired for a moment that it hit me. Also, this is for fermentingwater because she wanted a nice story, so I finally got it done.
Title: Shards of Glass (1/?)
Rating: Uh... I'd say R to be safe.
Pairings: Brian/Mick (revisiting my first Stones pairing)
Word Count: 2222
Disclaimer: I don't own the Stones because slavery is illegal in the U.S, nor do I own the lyrics used in here.
1969...
Before you slip into unconsciousness
I'd like to have another kiss.
Inclined on a chair, drawing in puffs of cigarette-laced air, arms crossed and an invisible string lifting his foot, making it tap against the floor, agitated and the resounding tap-tap is enough. Mick could swear the grinding of his mechanisms is loud and ail-bodied enough to be heard-- his thought process, that is.
What a great way to open up with March, a luscious month of rainy groundwater after and bright-toothed suns and whimsical, soft flowers combined with air to form rust upon his skin to gnaw away. Spring is supposed to be saturating the air, but it takes a backseat.
As usual, he finds himself wound upon this warn-out wooden chair, nothing in his mind again. Mick finds himself in this colorful room, the day eroding away, nothing to distract himself from the cynical up-and-coming question from his studies.
It had come to be a routine, even the thought of forwarding with that planned function, just phoning Brian would cause those sick tremors, collapse his lungs in an array of over-heatedness. His mouth and tongue, a comrade of the rather brash egotistical mind, seize up in insubordination, threatening to slide back into the safety of his chest to greet with his clamoring heart, harshly slamming against the bars of his ribcage.
His skin wants to rupture, to split open and let his insides splatter everywhere, to tell himself that, yes indeed, he had feelings and they were so sent out in shame.
Even though he knows the effortlessness in picking up the plastic receiver-- Christ, why can‘t he get passed this simple deed?--, staring at the holed dialer, the numbers dimly piercing through, what could Mick possibly say to him? He would have to soften the blow, knowing the drivel that would pour from the alcohol in Brian’s voice.
I… just want to see you-- and only you-- but the others want nothing to do with you. How do you want me to break this to you? I can’t keep convincing them to let you stay. I‘m sorry.
Mick would have to speak those calamitous words, and falling like a nuclear bomb from his lips, sending everything spiraling into jetsetter turmoil.
For every bit of length gained by his hands, the stronger his hands would quake and quiver, seize up in waves of panic, developing simultaneous Parkinson’s by their own accord. He frets over the increasing clinical nature of this task.
This guilt wants to oxidize Mick entirely, utterly destroying and dissolving his composition in the crossfire.
--
1964. The year of change.
--how poetic of you. Really.
Palatial laughter is ample in the air, it is enough to pull Brian, and he lends an eye to the side of himself, pausing as Mick is gliding to the park bench, his feet ascending over the yellow and green-slashed grasses, crunching under his newest pair of shoes, towards a nameless park and children’s playing equipment. Somewhere dangling in the background of this metal jungle lies a greenhouse, just there punctuated by the colors of the night and surroundings. It bears life inside those glass walls.
It’s somewhere in May, both boys emerging into and from post-adolescence, a night on the town, thick stenches of booze, cigarettes, the occasional fan giving the exuberant replies and advances. They had been at this task that the sky was no longer a slosh of a fleeting titian and dominating saffron and the day was ready to slip under the waves of pitch darkness, closing its eyes, and coming to a steady end.
Mick flops down on the non-living object, lying open in the air for any poor soul to rest their weary selves on; not questioning the tangible or non-existing reason that a complete strange person seats himself or herself, just sitting there in vulnerability and ready to lend an invisible ear to a stream of excuses. Mick plops down excitedly, body and mind awash in these unhinged sensations.
Brian is laughing precipitately, robust and loud, ringing through his ears and through the thin strands of his haystack hair.
--
1968...
--what happened to us?
There are two sets of words, each varying in jubilation and affliction, one needy and the other set in almost perfect stone. How to change the soon-to-be destined paths is beyond Mick.
Sirens wail within his mind, whirling and stewing its broth, ready to be served cold.
I want to see you--
you’re fired.
Mick swallows hard; his throat constricting to a point where Mick was sure they would implode on themselves and completely collapse. Maybe it could stop him from making this call, though he would doubt it. For the past many months, he is sure he has at least looked at the phone-- stared intensely-- at least once a day, brows furrowing with trepidity at what he is going to do-- how he is going to do it. He swallows his fear, thickly and greasily coating his throat like his own mucus, and nervousness and approaches the phone, his slight body convulsing in tremors. There is really no palpable reason to reach towards this gleaming plastic devise whose devious dial spins in mockery at his shaky hands and not dial the number,
So now, it’s evident that it’s come down to what it’s always been for a while now.
Mick verses the telephone.
Again.
Bile upsurges deep in his throat, threatening to spew from his nostrils and onto his face. As his fingers unsteadily reach for the dial, his mind rationalizes that maybe-- maybe he will not be there, perhaps fall down drunk outside somewhere so Mick doesn’t have to regurgitate this news.
Immaculate fingers reach inside the hole in the dial, sliding it a few places, the clicking of the dial spins, being too loud and Mick winces. The singer moves his fingers again; much indisposition is buried inside his fingers.
The mechanized devise is pressed against his ear, the incessant buzz of a cut-off end. He finishes the number and there was more effort involved then he thought possible. Mick exhales to mentally prepare himself but he can’t make it completely through.
Don’tbetheredon’tbetheredon’tbethere-- Fuck Brian! Wait, this isn’t--
“You’re calling Brian’s house, who is this?” Obviously, female, and he knows who it is. He is speaking right to Suki right now.
“I--… can I… talk to Brian?” Ineptitude drizzles deeply over his voice, a dull clamor of emotions surge forwards and his voice nearly betrays his person, though it slightly wavers him. Mick knows that she could sanction his voice-- but his voice is hampered with nervousness and clamor to a point where he is just a garbled mess of hums and stuttering.
“Is this you, Mick?” There’s a surprised tone in her voice and Mick panics. In a flurry of surging and booming emotions, Mick slams the phone back on the receiver and yet again panics. Fuck!
--
1964.
“There’s something about a studio that makes people seize up in awe.”
When no noise follow the sound of this sentence, it becomes peculiar. Mick steadies himself back on the studio wall, his eyes pretending to be interested in anything like the walls, the floors, the guitars-- but he has really concerned his attention with the stacks of records looming in the corner, concentrated by the lights that hum in the hallways close to the door.
Both arms are crossing Mick’s stomach and he sees a neglected studio chair, allows himself to be seated, and gazes up at where Brian was standing, hunched over an old record player and he comments offhandedly with, “Is that what you wanted to do here? Other then just to get some records?”
“Not really.”
Brian decides to do what Mick had been silently yearning for, striding over to the box of records, shifting through what he would call a blues heaven, and Mick peels himself from the seat and commands a stance behind Brian, watching with cerulean eyes as Brian fiddles through the stack.
Brian had compiled a stack out of the records, Jimmy Reed, John Lee Hooker, Chuck Berry, Little Richards, Etta James, Sam Cook and a few other nameless others, but a Muddy Waters album takes a dominating position over all.
“I’ve had a hankering for Muddy for a long while.”
Mick glances over Brian’s shoulder, grinning at the album. Before Brian could tell, Mick has reached around and grasps the record, leaving Brian without an album. The singer is flittering in front of the record player, recognizing the musical ooze that drips out of the sound system, sliding out alive and thick, and utilizes his voice to sing along, coming onto a sultry and hypnotic spell, mesmerizing Brian’s ears for the moment of time.
I don't want you, cook my bread,
I don't want you, make my bed,
I don't want your money too,
I just wanna make love to you.
Something in the way about that voice has Brian tuned in, watching as the sinewy body swivels around slowly, hips shimmying along with the loose, but constricted movements. Sweaty-knuckled, nervous, interested in what could transpire, and Brian is suddenly aware of everything. His mind melts and kindles into the answer he his waiting to see, knowing full well what his answer will be, but still he is holding back.
I don't want you, be no slave,
I don't want you, work all day,
I don't want you to be sad and blue,
I just wanna make love to you.
Something constitutes deep with the blonde’s chest, the movement and feeling so alacritous and Brian finds himself in front of the younger boy, hands quickly upon the thin stick-lick forearms of the big-lipped boy in front of him, his nose face to face with his. Mick does not realize just what he is doing, and he finds himself still singing those lyrics, now meaning something he should not even be singing in such a manner or even still continuing.
I can tell by the way that you baby talk,
I can see by the way that you switch and walk,
I can tell by the way that you treat your man,
But I could love you baby, it's a cryin' shame.
Brian’s eyes almost slip under the back of his eyelids, feeling something almost entirely different then what he would when he would hear previously those lyrics. There is something buried deep within his stomach, some feeling that arises from a certain event, almost two years since it’s arisen from its deep buried walls.
I don't want you, wash my clothes,
I don't want you, keep a home,
I don't want you to be true,
I just wanna make love to you.
Muddy’s voice is almost forgotten instantly. There seems to have been a budding situation: anger, lust, resentment, curiosity, desperation, affection-- everything culminates at once, projecting inside their bodies as the syringe empties itself inside them, fueling them in an act of complete emotional drive. Brian doesn’t want to wait any longer, the raw excitement and envy push him forwards and he yanks Mick to him, assaulting the large-lipped boy.
I don't want you, be no slave,
I don't want you, work all day,
I don't want you to be true,
I just wanna make love to you.
Mick’s body betrays him, acting on what it liked best, whether Mick’s mind enjoyed it or not, and it gave in. This fast movement pushes both back and they stagger to the wall and slide down, using it as a guide and solidity that gives them some type of reassurance, that, yes, this isn’t surreal or some illusion that they’re carnal-fueled brains weren’t displaying.
I don't want you, keep a home,
I don't want you, wash my clothes,
I don't want you to be true,
I just wanna make love...
Brian slinks forwards, trusting the intense instincts playing inside his body like carbon film received by the projector, winding him up like a toy and pushing him out, completely under its command. He wants to do this now, no matter if they’re on the floor, groaning shamelessly, under the music that has brought them together. Mick is more off to a rather disadvantage. He can’t compare to the supplies of birds that Brian has had and certainly more then he would-- he had three kids before even hitting twenty one. He’s more skilled, more gracefully prepared, and certainly knowing just what part of the anatomy to tease and extract.
Both men fumble on the floor, already in the moments of a quick shag on slightly grimy floors of Chess Records.
--
1969.
Maybe tomorrow, he tells himself, hopeful to wash down the shakiness. The clock's clamorous chime pulls him from his thoughts, departing them from his mind and out his body through open, gaping pores. His desperation plays a thick mirage that maybe, just maybe, he could save himself from delivering the sour and probably fatal call to Brian.
He retracts his arm from the phone, burned and withering from it, Mick retracts his hand, letting it fall back onto the cloth it’s become familiar with. Yeah, maybe another time he could do this.
“I’ve called to let you know, that everyone thinks you should be let off. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do anymore.”
Title: Shards of Glass (1/?)
Rating: Uh... I'd say R to be safe.
Pairings: Brian/Mick (revisiting my first Stones pairing)
Word Count: 2222
Disclaimer: I don't own the Stones because slavery is illegal in the U.S, nor do I own the lyrics used in here.
1969...
Before you slip into unconsciousness
I'd like to have another kiss.
Inclined on a chair, drawing in puffs of cigarette-laced air, arms crossed and an invisible string lifting his foot, making it tap against the floor, agitated and the resounding tap-tap is enough. Mick could swear the grinding of his mechanisms is loud and ail-bodied enough to be heard-- his thought process, that is.
What a great way to open up with March, a luscious month of rainy groundwater after and bright-toothed suns and whimsical, soft flowers combined with air to form rust upon his skin to gnaw away. Spring is supposed to be saturating the air, but it takes a backseat.
As usual, he finds himself wound upon this warn-out wooden chair, nothing in his mind again. Mick finds himself in this colorful room, the day eroding away, nothing to distract himself from the cynical up-and-coming question from his studies.
It had come to be a routine, even the thought of forwarding with that planned function, just phoning Brian would cause those sick tremors, collapse his lungs in an array of over-heatedness. His mouth and tongue, a comrade of the rather brash egotistical mind, seize up in insubordination, threatening to slide back into the safety of his chest to greet with his clamoring heart, harshly slamming against the bars of his ribcage.
His skin wants to rupture, to split open and let his insides splatter everywhere, to tell himself that, yes indeed, he had feelings and they were so sent out in shame.
Even though he knows the effortlessness in picking up the plastic receiver-- Christ, why can‘t he get passed this simple deed?--, staring at the holed dialer, the numbers dimly piercing through, what could Mick possibly say to him? He would have to soften the blow, knowing the drivel that would pour from the alcohol in Brian’s voice.
I… just want to see you-- and only you-- but the others want nothing to do with you. How do you want me to break this to you? I can’t keep convincing them to let you stay. I‘m sorry.
Mick would have to speak those calamitous words, and falling like a nuclear bomb from his lips, sending everything spiraling into jetsetter turmoil.
For every bit of length gained by his hands, the stronger his hands would quake and quiver, seize up in waves of panic, developing simultaneous Parkinson’s by their own accord. He frets over the increasing clinical nature of this task.
This guilt wants to oxidize Mick entirely, utterly destroying and dissolving his composition in the crossfire.
--
1964. The year of change.
--how poetic of you. Really.
Palatial laughter is ample in the air, it is enough to pull Brian, and he lends an eye to the side of himself, pausing as Mick is gliding to the park bench, his feet ascending over the yellow and green-slashed grasses, crunching under his newest pair of shoes, towards a nameless park and children’s playing equipment. Somewhere dangling in the background of this metal jungle lies a greenhouse, just there punctuated by the colors of the night and surroundings. It bears life inside those glass walls.
It’s somewhere in May, both boys emerging into and from post-adolescence, a night on the town, thick stenches of booze, cigarettes, the occasional fan giving the exuberant replies and advances. They had been at this task that the sky was no longer a slosh of a fleeting titian and dominating saffron and the day was ready to slip under the waves of pitch darkness, closing its eyes, and coming to a steady end.
Mick flops down on the non-living object, lying open in the air for any poor soul to rest their weary selves on; not questioning the tangible or non-existing reason that a complete strange person seats himself or herself, just sitting there in vulnerability and ready to lend an invisible ear to a stream of excuses. Mick plops down excitedly, body and mind awash in these unhinged sensations.
Brian is laughing precipitately, robust and loud, ringing through his ears and through the thin strands of his haystack hair.
--
1968...
--what happened to us?
There are two sets of words, each varying in jubilation and affliction, one needy and the other set in almost perfect stone. How to change the soon-to-be destined paths is beyond Mick.
Sirens wail within his mind, whirling and stewing its broth, ready to be served cold.
I want to see you--
you’re fired.
Mick swallows hard; his throat constricting to a point where Mick was sure they would implode on themselves and completely collapse. Maybe it could stop him from making this call, though he would doubt it. For the past many months, he is sure he has at least looked at the phone-- stared intensely-- at least once a day, brows furrowing with trepidity at what he is going to do-- how he is going to do it. He swallows his fear, thickly and greasily coating his throat like his own mucus, and nervousness and approaches the phone, his slight body convulsing in tremors. There is really no palpable reason to reach towards this gleaming plastic devise whose devious dial spins in mockery at his shaky hands and not dial the number,
So now, it’s evident that it’s come down to what it’s always been for a while now.
Mick verses the telephone.
Again.
Bile upsurges deep in his throat, threatening to spew from his nostrils and onto his face. As his fingers unsteadily reach for the dial, his mind rationalizes that maybe-- maybe he will not be there, perhaps fall down drunk outside somewhere so Mick doesn’t have to regurgitate this news.
Immaculate fingers reach inside the hole in the dial, sliding it a few places, the clicking of the dial spins, being too loud and Mick winces. The singer moves his fingers again; much indisposition is buried inside his fingers.
The mechanized devise is pressed against his ear, the incessant buzz of a cut-off end. He finishes the number and there was more effort involved then he thought possible. Mick exhales to mentally prepare himself but he can’t make it completely through.
Don’tbetheredon’tbetheredon’tbethere-- Fuck Brian! Wait, this isn’t--
“You’re calling Brian’s house, who is this?” Obviously, female, and he knows who it is. He is speaking right to Suki right now.
“I--… can I… talk to Brian?” Ineptitude drizzles deeply over his voice, a dull clamor of emotions surge forwards and his voice nearly betrays his person, though it slightly wavers him. Mick knows that she could sanction his voice-- but his voice is hampered with nervousness and clamor to a point where he is just a garbled mess of hums and stuttering.
“Is this you, Mick?” There’s a surprised tone in her voice and Mick panics. In a flurry of surging and booming emotions, Mick slams the phone back on the receiver and yet again panics. Fuck!
--
1964.
“There’s something about a studio that makes people seize up in awe.”
When no noise follow the sound of this sentence, it becomes peculiar. Mick steadies himself back on the studio wall, his eyes pretending to be interested in anything like the walls, the floors, the guitars-- but he has really concerned his attention with the stacks of records looming in the corner, concentrated by the lights that hum in the hallways close to the door.
Both arms are crossing Mick’s stomach and he sees a neglected studio chair, allows himself to be seated, and gazes up at where Brian was standing, hunched over an old record player and he comments offhandedly with, “Is that what you wanted to do here? Other then just to get some records?”
“Not really.”
Brian decides to do what Mick had been silently yearning for, striding over to the box of records, shifting through what he would call a blues heaven, and Mick peels himself from the seat and commands a stance behind Brian, watching with cerulean eyes as Brian fiddles through the stack.
Brian had compiled a stack out of the records, Jimmy Reed, John Lee Hooker, Chuck Berry, Little Richards, Etta James, Sam Cook and a few other nameless others, but a Muddy Waters album takes a dominating position over all.
“I’ve had a hankering for Muddy for a long while.”
Mick glances over Brian’s shoulder, grinning at the album. Before Brian could tell, Mick has reached around and grasps the record, leaving Brian without an album. The singer is flittering in front of the record player, recognizing the musical ooze that drips out of the sound system, sliding out alive and thick, and utilizes his voice to sing along, coming onto a sultry and hypnotic spell, mesmerizing Brian’s ears for the moment of time.
I don't want you, cook my bread,
I don't want you, make my bed,
I don't want your money too,
I just wanna make love to you.
Something in the way about that voice has Brian tuned in, watching as the sinewy body swivels around slowly, hips shimmying along with the loose, but constricted movements. Sweaty-knuckled, nervous, interested in what could transpire, and Brian is suddenly aware of everything. His mind melts and kindles into the answer he his waiting to see, knowing full well what his answer will be, but still he is holding back.
I don't want you, be no slave,
I don't want you, work all day,
I don't want you to be sad and blue,
I just wanna make love to you.
Something constitutes deep with the blonde’s chest, the movement and feeling so alacritous and Brian finds himself in front of the younger boy, hands quickly upon the thin stick-lick forearms of the big-lipped boy in front of him, his nose face to face with his. Mick does not realize just what he is doing, and he finds himself still singing those lyrics, now meaning something he should not even be singing in such a manner or even still continuing.
I can tell by the way that you baby talk,
I can see by the way that you switch and walk,
I can tell by the way that you treat your man,
But I could love you baby, it's a cryin' shame.
Brian’s eyes almost slip under the back of his eyelids, feeling something almost entirely different then what he would when he would hear previously those lyrics. There is something buried deep within his stomach, some feeling that arises from a certain event, almost two years since it’s arisen from its deep buried walls.
I don't want you, wash my clothes,
I don't want you, keep a home,
I don't want you to be true,
I just wanna make love to you.
Muddy’s voice is almost forgotten instantly. There seems to have been a budding situation: anger, lust, resentment, curiosity, desperation, affection-- everything culminates at once, projecting inside their bodies as the syringe empties itself inside them, fueling them in an act of complete emotional drive. Brian doesn’t want to wait any longer, the raw excitement and envy push him forwards and he yanks Mick to him, assaulting the large-lipped boy.
I don't want you, be no slave,
I don't want you, work all day,
I don't want you to be true,
I just wanna make love to you.
Mick’s body betrays him, acting on what it liked best, whether Mick’s mind enjoyed it or not, and it gave in. This fast movement pushes both back and they stagger to the wall and slide down, using it as a guide and solidity that gives them some type of reassurance, that, yes, this isn’t surreal or some illusion that they’re carnal-fueled brains weren’t displaying.
I don't want you, keep a home,
I don't want you, wash my clothes,
I don't want you to be true,
I just wanna make love...
Brian slinks forwards, trusting the intense instincts playing inside his body like carbon film received by the projector, winding him up like a toy and pushing him out, completely under its command. He wants to do this now, no matter if they’re on the floor, groaning shamelessly, under the music that has brought them together. Mick is more off to a rather disadvantage. He can’t compare to the supplies of birds that Brian has had and certainly more then he would-- he had three kids before even hitting twenty one. He’s more skilled, more gracefully prepared, and certainly knowing just what part of the anatomy to tease and extract.
Both men fumble on the floor, already in the moments of a quick shag on slightly grimy floors of Chess Records.
--
1969.
Maybe tomorrow, he tells himself, hopeful to wash down the shakiness. The clock's clamorous chime pulls him from his thoughts, departing them from his mind and out his body through open, gaping pores. His desperation plays a thick mirage that maybe, just maybe, he could save himself from delivering the sour and probably fatal call to Brian.
He retracts his arm from the phone, burned and withering from it, Mick retracts his hand, letting it fall back onto the cloth it’s become familiar with. Yeah, maybe another time he could do this.
“I’ve called to let you know, that everyone thinks you should be let off. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do anymore.”