Life is being so slow
Title: The Lure of Tender Brutality
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Keith/Mick
Word Count: 1501 (why is it so shoooooort?)
Disclaimer: I don't own the Stones and their sanity is thankfully for it.
I have been bored and finishing up a bunch of stories that have been sitting around unfinished
I hate how you don’t look at me.
Keith finds himself ensconced in a chair of his hotel room, a withering cigarette dangling from his mouth. Keith cannot recall what city he is in anymore, the sights and modulations of the bustling people outside his walls all the same. The same clackclackclack of feet raging on the sidewalks outside, superimposed in the same misty night sky for however long this city has been alive.
Keith’s attention is convened on the breathing object in front of him, finding his sights settling over the unmoving body, as his gaze remains stony. Keith deliberates the body in front of him; brown hair swirled around in a storm of hazes, draped along the chair, face leaning on the cream-colored surface. Keith wanted to move towards Mick, but he hesitated and only abrogates the cigarette out in the heavy glass ash trey.
“Sometimes it’s a wonder to why you don’t hate me,” Keith says daintily into the air. Keith pulls his eyes to the ceiling, the subfuse paint providing no ferment for his eyes. There is no enthusiasm inside his throat anymore, his voice spewing out, “Because I’ve certainly done things to make you hate me.”
There’s no wit in his voice, just a small clamoring of inquisitive. Keith has tested the limits with Mick, spewing his injurious jabs, his fists nearly interlacing around Mick’s throat until he would be a squawking orchestra of sounds, but Keith could not really do that.
Why haven’t your eyes dimmed every time I come near?
Keith would stand there, his back facing the person who Keith viscously taunts with dripping poison in the form of words, that body producing that drivel that Keith would ignore. Keith would tone his voice until it hit a thickly penetrating stream of mockery and relentless assaults.
“Please Keith, just look at me for a second,” Mick would say, pleading with him. Should he, Keith could wonder at times. Should he just push those brass buttons of Mick’s already withering gears, causing a baneful halt and make Mick lash out, using a heavy fist to crack him up and leave him in a pile of his own teeth? Because Keith knows. He fucking knows that Mick would not lay a finger on him, though Keith would not hesitate to return with brutish force.
Sometimes Mick would say something back. Keith would like it to give into a haze of explosive fists and kicking legs and clawing fingers, but Mick only articulates. “Sometimes, you’re just a nightmare.”
A nightmare.
This sounds too tired to be scathing, almost as though he is admitting something he does not want to, spending hours that collapsed into days brainwashing that flailing mind of his that this is not some mirage his brain conjured up. It’s that reoccurring nightmare that ebbs away at someone’s sanity before completely mutilating their persona before leaving them empty and a complete shell of their former selves.
A motherfucking nightmare.
Keith still perceives the wall. He doesn’t dare to turn around.
Oh.
Keith’s chest sizes up to a point where his bones adjourning off any electrical signals he receives from his spinal chord. The guitarist cannot even manage a stutter of sound, his eyes too concenter on the wall. He will not give Mick that satisfaction in knowing he’s been caught, hooked with Mick’s line and let him know that he’s been affected. It’s like that phrase shoved a boiled carving knife into his chest, sliding all around to create a dense amount of damage, slicking his insides with false heat, just welling him up for the ultimate defeat.
It sears at his heart more then it should.
“I hate what you’ve become.”
Keith finally surmises that he can turn around and face Mick. Keith knows he has never had the world’s best yielding or tolerance, but he is surprisingly calm. His anger is welling up like a dam, just pushing itself to coddle to the surface. Keith leisurely turns himself to face the older boy.
“Fuck you, you never really knew me in the first place,” Keith practically snarls this out, his face slightly twisting into a grimace. Keith knows this may be particularly true, but he wants to deny it. He doesn’t want Mick to pry open the book to his feelings, knowing just what pages to turn.
“Why?” Mick quips sharply. “You can never face me truthfully. Always hiding behind that pathetic art school outlaw image.”
Keith is sure that he can no longer abide in keeping himself contained. It is more then the guitarist can stand and he lunges forward his hand, making a swift connection to Mick’s face.
A fierce slapping noise with the combination of a body moving and a sound of garbled words and Keith flies towards him. He pins him to the wall, his nose bellowing out what could have been smoke, but Keith presses hard, almost making the singer cry out. Both lock eyes and are at a standstill, both disgorging invisible assaults, seeing which could crumble and the other making the kill.
The pressure is gone as Keith turns around, leaving Mick on the wall, too angry to put up with anything. He doesn’t auscultate the words that are uttered by the other in the room. “Just a fucking junkie you are. Can’t stand it, can’t you?”
Mick languidly plunges to the ground, his back sliding down the wall and sits there.
Keith poises outside of the door, his body, once again, locked in a disobedience to move. He ganders down stonily at his feet, a dazed sight that gapes down at the almost worn-out snakeskin cowboy boots on his feet. He just had the nerve to attack his best friend. It is in that moment that Keith effectuates something. A type of astonishment that clouds his face and stops his pores.
No matter how many times Keith has almost forced Mick into a corner, back against the wall, or crumbled to the floor-- to a breaking point, Mick always came back.
Always.
It makes Keith afraid because somewhere inside him, something wants to push those levers, to see if he can completely break Mick. He hates that thought as it slides coldly into the back of his mind, forever there to plague him of this.
--
Keith finally pushes himself in front of Mick, his almost unstable hand reaching out let his hand lightly fall on Mick’s hair. He let his fingers linger for a while, just letting the softness penetrate him, to slip through the cold hardness that Keith has pushed to his surface.
There’s a sound pushing past his lips, a sound so almost foreign. The guitarist recognizes this sounds and wants to crumble, curl up and be swallowed by the sea or ground.
“I’m sorry.”
But it’s not enough.
Keith still stands above him, his fingers still straying through the burnished strands. There is no sharp moonlight to file into the room, to save Keith from the pained knowledge that he does want to push, push as far as he possibly can go. There is no cheer to tailgate his movements, informing him that he is not supposed to feel this way at all. Thrashing the living blood that flows from his veins.
There is that angry side of him. The part of him that wants to cleave open flesh wounds on Mick’s perfect skin, dig into his veins and let the blood slither out and face the work of his efforts. All because he had a fiery temper that would never allow him to rationalize a clear picture of what he was supposed to do. How was he supposed to love this creature if he was too busy in letting himself indulge in pushing him?
Everything can’t be so serious like this.
There is a menacing sound of the clock beside, that awful tick-tock-tick-tock just grating his brain over and over. Keith can’t bare it anymore, so much that he stops. He sighed ruggedly and retreats his hand. Taking a chance he leans down, and he creaks his spine to a stop. He places his chapped lips on Mick’s forehead. He lets himself linger for a while, enjoying the warmth that permeates his lips and into his face. He pulls away and whispers a sweet phrase for Mick.
“I’m sorry.”
Keith isn’t sure if Mick heard it, but he is sure that one day he’ll say it to Mick when he’s awake. To thank him for all the times that Mick’s helped him, just a stupid junkie who can’t keep himself out of the devil’s way. Always such a frustrating character to deal with.
Hate me for all the things I didn't do for you.
Keith puts his arms around a large fold of blankets, drawing it from the bed and draped it across thin shoulders. Keith made sure the singer had some type of warmth, hoping that Mick could wake up to some warmth that could help him through.
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Keith/Mick
Word Count: 1501 (why is it so shoooooort?)
Disclaimer: I don't own the Stones and their sanity is thankfully for it.
I have been bored and finishing up a bunch of stories that have been sitting around unfinished
I hate how you don’t look at me.
Keith finds himself ensconced in a chair of his hotel room, a withering cigarette dangling from his mouth. Keith cannot recall what city he is in anymore, the sights and modulations of the bustling people outside his walls all the same. The same clackclackclack of feet raging on the sidewalks outside, superimposed in the same misty night sky for however long this city has been alive.
Keith’s attention is convened on the breathing object in front of him, finding his sights settling over the unmoving body, as his gaze remains stony. Keith deliberates the body in front of him; brown hair swirled around in a storm of hazes, draped along the chair, face leaning on the cream-colored surface. Keith wanted to move towards Mick, but he hesitated and only abrogates the cigarette out in the heavy glass ash trey.
“Sometimes it’s a wonder to why you don’t hate me,” Keith says daintily into the air. Keith pulls his eyes to the ceiling, the subfuse paint providing no ferment for his eyes. There is no enthusiasm inside his throat anymore, his voice spewing out, “Because I’ve certainly done things to make you hate me.”
There’s no wit in his voice, just a small clamoring of inquisitive. Keith has tested the limits with Mick, spewing his injurious jabs, his fists nearly interlacing around Mick’s throat until he would be a squawking orchestra of sounds, but Keith could not really do that.
Why haven’t your eyes dimmed every time I come near?
Keith would stand there, his back facing the person who Keith viscously taunts with dripping poison in the form of words, that body producing that drivel that Keith would ignore. Keith would tone his voice until it hit a thickly penetrating stream of mockery and relentless assaults.
“Please Keith, just look at me for a second,” Mick would say, pleading with him. Should he, Keith could wonder at times. Should he just push those brass buttons of Mick’s already withering gears, causing a baneful halt and make Mick lash out, using a heavy fist to crack him up and leave him in a pile of his own teeth? Because Keith knows. He fucking knows that Mick would not lay a finger on him, though Keith would not hesitate to return with brutish force.
Sometimes Mick would say something back. Keith would like it to give into a haze of explosive fists and kicking legs and clawing fingers, but Mick only articulates. “Sometimes, you’re just a nightmare.”
A nightmare.
This sounds too tired to be scathing, almost as though he is admitting something he does not want to, spending hours that collapsed into days brainwashing that flailing mind of his that this is not some mirage his brain conjured up. It’s that reoccurring nightmare that ebbs away at someone’s sanity before completely mutilating their persona before leaving them empty and a complete shell of their former selves.
A motherfucking nightmare.
Keith still perceives the wall. He doesn’t dare to turn around.
Oh.
Keith’s chest sizes up to a point where his bones adjourning off any electrical signals he receives from his spinal chord. The guitarist cannot even manage a stutter of sound, his eyes too concenter on the wall. He will not give Mick that satisfaction in knowing he’s been caught, hooked with Mick’s line and let him know that he’s been affected. It’s like that phrase shoved a boiled carving knife into his chest, sliding all around to create a dense amount of damage, slicking his insides with false heat, just welling him up for the ultimate defeat.
It sears at his heart more then it should.
“I hate what you’ve become.”
Keith finally surmises that he can turn around and face Mick. Keith knows he has never had the world’s best yielding or tolerance, but he is surprisingly calm. His anger is welling up like a dam, just pushing itself to coddle to the surface. Keith leisurely turns himself to face the older boy.
“Fuck you, you never really knew me in the first place,” Keith practically snarls this out, his face slightly twisting into a grimace. Keith knows this may be particularly true, but he wants to deny it. He doesn’t want Mick to pry open the book to his feelings, knowing just what pages to turn.
“Why?” Mick quips sharply. “You can never face me truthfully. Always hiding behind that pathetic art school outlaw image.”
Keith is sure that he can no longer abide in keeping himself contained. It is more then the guitarist can stand and he lunges forward his hand, making a swift connection to Mick’s face.
A fierce slapping noise with the combination of a body moving and a sound of garbled words and Keith flies towards him. He pins him to the wall, his nose bellowing out what could have been smoke, but Keith presses hard, almost making the singer cry out. Both lock eyes and are at a standstill, both disgorging invisible assaults, seeing which could crumble and the other making the kill.
The pressure is gone as Keith turns around, leaving Mick on the wall, too angry to put up with anything. He doesn’t auscultate the words that are uttered by the other in the room. “Just a fucking junkie you are. Can’t stand it, can’t you?”
Mick languidly plunges to the ground, his back sliding down the wall and sits there.
Keith poises outside of the door, his body, once again, locked in a disobedience to move. He ganders down stonily at his feet, a dazed sight that gapes down at the almost worn-out snakeskin cowboy boots on his feet. He just had the nerve to attack his best friend. It is in that moment that Keith effectuates something. A type of astonishment that clouds his face and stops his pores.
No matter how many times Keith has almost forced Mick into a corner, back against the wall, or crumbled to the floor-- to a breaking point, Mick always came back.
Always.
It makes Keith afraid because somewhere inside him, something wants to push those levers, to see if he can completely break Mick. He hates that thought as it slides coldly into the back of his mind, forever there to plague him of this.
--
Keith finally pushes himself in front of Mick, his almost unstable hand reaching out let his hand lightly fall on Mick’s hair. He let his fingers linger for a while, just letting the softness penetrate him, to slip through the cold hardness that Keith has pushed to his surface.
There’s a sound pushing past his lips, a sound so almost foreign. The guitarist recognizes this sounds and wants to crumble, curl up and be swallowed by the sea or ground.
“I’m sorry.”
But it’s not enough.
Keith still stands above him, his fingers still straying through the burnished strands. There is no sharp moonlight to file into the room, to save Keith from the pained knowledge that he does want to push, push as far as he possibly can go. There is no cheer to tailgate his movements, informing him that he is not supposed to feel this way at all. Thrashing the living blood that flows from his veins.
There is that angry side of him. The part of him that wants to cleave open flesh wounds on Mick’s perfect skin, dig into his veins and let the blood slither out and face the work of his efforts. All because he had a fiery temper that would never allow him to rationalize a clear picture of what he was supposed to do. How was he supposed to love this creature if he was too busy in letting himself indulge in pushing him?
Everything can’t be so serious like this.
There is a menacing sound of the clock beside, that awful tick-tock-tick-tock just grating his brain over and over. Keith can’t bare it anymore, so much that he stops. He sighed ruggedly and retreats his hand. Taking a chance he leans down, and he creaks his spine to a stop. He places his chapped lips on Mick’s forehead. He lets himself linger for a while, enjoying the warmth that permeates his lips and into his face. He pulls away and whispers a sweet phrase for Mick.
“I’m sorry.”
Keith isn’t sure if Mick heard it, but he is sure that one day he’ll say it to Mick when he’s awake. To thank him for all the times that Mick’s helped him, just a stupid junkie who can’t keep himself out of the devil’s way. Always such a frustrating character to deal with.
Hate me for all the things I didn't do for you.
Keith puts his arms around a large fold of blankets, drawing it from the bed and draped it across thin shoulders. Keith made sure the singer had some type of warmth, hoping that Mick could wake up to some warmth that could help him through.