A different approach this time; angst ahoy.
Title: I've Got No Expectations
Rating: R
Pairings: Keith/Mick
Word Count: 2208
Disclaimer: Part of it is true (the whole Altamont thing), but everything else is fake, fake, fake.
Mick watched from the stage. His body oscillated, just shaking as he stood at the microphones stand, it hovering awkwardly in front of his face. His breath was swallowed with little sympathy by the cold, bitter air. He is jolted awake in this mass, jarred without remorse and heavily thrown back against a brick wall. There is no way to escape let alone defend himself, seeing that his security was supposed to defending him and the stage-- they were so horrible and vile at what they did. It wasn’t so much as defending but more or less letting the problem slip into their fingers. Mick is sure this problem is like trying to grasp the grains of sand; running effortlessly through his fingers and away from him.
‘Wake the fuck up genius,’ his mind cries out to him. He is helpless and nothing can stop him from taking this dive, plunging and sinking. Mick drew in a breath to allow himself to calm down, but how can he when those big brutes are collected at the end of the stage, adding to the chaos.
“Now baby it’s alright,” he called out the lyrics of his song. Funny that they should sound insecure and shaky when he’s sang these words a dozen times. The people will never know just how much he wanted those words to mean true to its core.
‘This has got to be fucking bullocks; you need to take control of this. NOW.’ His mind panics and the guitar comes screeching into his ear. Mick flinches, his conscious active again as he darts to Keith and shoves out the unrehearsed words of, “Keith-- Keith-- Keith! Will you just cool it for a moment!”
The guitar broke off and Mick isn’t sure if he’s ready to face the crowd without the security of the music. “Brothers and sisters,” his voice tries to speak in the fashionable hippie chant to try and gain back the attention to only go unnoticed. He spots Keith looking at him wondering if he’ll get out to the masses. Stop-- stop--stop; it has to-- he can’t do this; he’s never lost control this bad, it viscously spews in his face like an angry dragon about to swoop down and make a swift kill. His eyes were large saucer-gazed and horrified at what would happen now. Keith was fluttering out to the side of his cerulean eyes, waiting and watching.
Keith was confused; he was afraid but he couldn’t be. The crowd swarmed in waves that rolled the non-light off like a shaking dog ridding itself of the unwanted wetness. This is a test. It has to be one big fucking test of him. He grasped his guitar like a weapon-- he could use it on someone if they got to close. Mick was boxed in, his posture to un-confident. What if they turned on Mick-- no, Keith couldn’t think like that. Something was cracking here; whether it be the hippies or the Angels, he couldn’t do it.
Somebody had to be there and act like the outlaw. What if he lost Mick from his sights? What if those brutes decided to set their sights on his singer? Rather if Hell decides to rip open with those violent messengers to tell him that they’re going to capture and condemn his singer? His attitude flares up in lime green and he’s alert of it. ‘Please don’t let them do it,’ Keith mind chants over and over. ‘Please, please, please.’ Mick looked like he would drown and Keith wanted to be there to help.
He felt like a helpless man, flailing his arms. In a situation that couldn't get any worse, he was tossed a bag of bricks to drag him down into the open mouth of a strong and destructive sea. "I knew performing could be dangerous but never like this." Sure they’ve ran into a considerable amount of trouble over the years: Frankfurt, Copenhagen, Amsterdam, New York, London and other little places that spring to mind; this is something completely different and it’s frightening.
They’ve pinned him to his back, flailing and unheard, the violence collecting at the lip of the stage. You’re not in power; it will repeat over and over, like a record playing on a turn-table. Repeat it. Forever will his mind act like an evil and brutish film-strip, replaying a night's worth of horror and unwanted emotions would brim to their top. A quiver will pass, a violent shudder, something; 'I want it to go away.'
These Angels are so ferocious and angry, just beating up people. How is this the resulting product of California, man? Aren’t they supposed to be peaceful people? Just these flower children blundering about in field of flowers and chanting peace, with interlocked arms and laced fingers? A lot has to have slipped under the waves of paranoia and destruction.
All of it doesn’t fit. Oozing out the places they have been cracked in. Just leaking.
'These bits are wrong of you." It was something that would resonate through his mind.
Keith is on alert. He has to be for Mick’s sake. Several times they have connected with each other, one in fear and the other fear inspired defenses. Keith has to be the one to help Mick out. He rushes forwards into the beast without his armor and takes hold of the mike to project his words into the crowd, “If those cats don’t stop, we don‘t play.” Keith hopes this will go well but the guitarist meets with much more of a brutal force. Another leather jacketed Angel-- Christ, why were they ever called Angels?-- rushes the mic, using his figure to block-out everything.
Just brute force keeps from exploding this situation from a possible death-ride.
What a nightmare.
Everything just culminates to a point where nothing is set but to drain; deflating was the reasonable action when the crowd seemingly died down of its conjecture. All can now enjoy this smooth amour as the music is now placed back at the head of the platter. People sang, they cried out for more, hands were waved and Mick finished it with a basket of petals; briefly he threw them as the petals temporarily budded into the air and be cast off into the crowd, fingers waiting for the soft flowers to land on them.
An escape finds them hauling to their metal escape. It thickly collects the bodies of the people who try to get away. It shakes and squawks in protest at why they are furnishing it to its maximum. Nobody cares except with the thought of getting the fuck out of there. Mick and Keith find each other in the midst of the disarray that shields them. Fingers connected in a bond of support to hope for a much better stunt. Now everything was a game; too surreal in dealing with the danger that is angrily delving down on them.
No one speaks-- what is there to say? “I’m sorry lads, but I’ve just been informed of the damages.” Or, “Hey, there’s been an accident out there.” Nothing can prepare them.
A pin-drop. The sound is silent. They’re hotel room seems more bare. The walls seem to flare up in invisible eyes, as though a thousand photographers are on the spot, greedily taking in everything that was left exposed, raw and hanging out to curl pathetically on the floor. Their teeth clash and chatter; drums seem to pound out their heart-beats in an undefined tune.
The sun has already retreated in the sky so long ago; a destructive, toneless darkness has slithered into their minds. The others sleep, nothing else can be left that requires them. Mick and Keith don’t speak-- couldn’t speak. They culminate themselves in their bed, the soft sheets feeling miles away. Mick supposes that they should feel horrified about this. He could hear how bad it could have been. He’d seen it with his own eyes but honestly, it could have gone worse then expected.
It would only be a few weeks later when all of these series of pieces would push together. Right on that piece of carbon-strip does a disaster crack them open, bleeding out treacherously. Mick places his blue gaze on the tiny, glass screen, suddenly sober and alert, straightens his back and leans forwards. How is he supposed to react? A sharp breath and an apology? He wants to curl up and melt away from this.
That black boy, that loud green suit, a plunge of a silvery poison straight through the back. An Angel has descended on him, angrily eating at his back in large clamping jaws. It was all there-- a sickening reality that finally unmasked itself; no more then a few feet away from their stage had it happened. These last words spoken from the boy’s mouth was forever a sound that Mick would never make out. His feelings are jumbled in an ocean of uncertainty. He knows what the other people will take from this. Their scornful faces pushing to the surface. Their voices dripping with accusing tones.
They claw at his mind: Mick…
-‘What do you want now?’
You are such a horrible person…
-‘You judge me like that?
What about yourselves? Your society.’
You let it happen. How could you? Limey bastard.
-‘What am I supposed to do?
I’m not a fucking God.’
You act like it. Don’t you fucking run away from it.
-‘Because you expected me to.
Am I not good enough to live up to your expectations?’
--
Once I was a rich man and
Now I am so poor
But never in my sweet short life
Have I felt like this before
--
It’s an amazing execution that someone--
rather a band that was praised only a few months ago
can now be cast off as demons.
They blame him. All of that on him. Nobody takes the fall except him and his band. Keith snorts at it and turns away, opting to not blame it on the murderer. The promoter. Everyone is Scott-free. He’s been cracked apart by every jab and insult that thickly slides down into his soul, accumulating into thick puddles of gray muck. Mick struggles to light a cigarette because his hands can’t stifle that trembling. A hand comes over to cover his own, just staying there as Mick regards the next being beside him. Hazel eyes survey what all Mick has to offer. A small smile appears.
“It’s not your fault.”
That one note, that one little simple phrase is enough to waver him; it sparks and flutters through his, fast lightening crackling thorough him and he is set ablaze with those enclosed emotions that Mick tried so hard to build up away past a brick wall. It bursts his emotional levees and gushes like a geyser. A tremble ruffles him and the blocked emotions collapse on his head, bursting his seams, letting his insides coil out to splatter on the asphalt.
A hand shifts through his hair, quelling him of these pestering feelings. Keith folds his arms to Mick’s back. He allows sweet words to drip from his voice, hoping to soften the bow and reverse it onto himself. Mick’s palms clench at the fabric on Keith’s shirt. His fingers threaten to tear at the threads that make up Keith’s shirt.
“Don’t beat yourself up over this.”
Mick’s face remained to be pressed in Keith’s shirt. “It’s my fault Keith. I shouldn’t gone through with this bloody concert.”
“None of that now,” Keith tried. “stop trying to beat yourself up over events that were out of your hands.”
Mick drew back, his spindly figure lightly dithering in unused emotion. “But-- hell, I’m the bugger who’s supposed to be in control when things like that happen.” Mick was silently tearing himself up. His scorn falls heavily from his conscious, steadily delivering that sour blow to himself; his plush lips move in silent words but they were loud and clear, falling from his mouth like spells.
Keith pulls away and presses his lips to the side of Mick’s face, attentively kissing away the moisture on his pearly-colored skin, those cracked lips scrapping across in a gentle manor. “Stop being so bloody negative.”
“But I can’t help but feel respon--”
Keith brought up a finger and lightly pressed it to his mouth, effectively cutting of any speech welled up in Mick’s throat. Keith gazed at him, a silent gesture that spoke in dozens of tones and volumes, each holding their own accord that struck differently with Mick. Like lightening, it was a different stroke and streak. Mick hushes into silence and allows Keith to just comfort him, allowing his best friend to just wipe away the harsh, biting ire that threatens to over-load his senses.
The public would explode with this. The accusations: ‘The Angel, The Crow, and the Five Pieces of Stones.’ Everything is forlorn and dark; nothing can penetrate the aura that has fixated to their beings. Either way they’ll get through it. They always will-- need to in order to finally move on.
Forever to be branded with a label or death.
"The day the music died." Oh, really now? It dies everyday; it's just not noticeable.
Rating: R
Pairings: Keith/Mick
Word Count: 2208
Disclaimer: Part of it is true (the whole Altamont thing), but everything else is fake, fake, fake.
Mick watched from the stage. His body oscillated, just shaking as he stood at the microphones stand, it hovering awkwardly in front of his face. His breath was swallowed with little sympathy by the cold, bitter air. He is jolted awake in this mass, jarred without remorse and heavily thrown back against a brick wall. There is no way to escape let alone defend himself, seeing that his security was supposed to defending him and the stage-- they were so horrible and vile at what they did. It wasn’t so much as defending but more or less letting the problem slip into their fingers. Mick is sure this problem is like trying to grasp the grains of sand; running effortlessly through his fingers and away from him.
‘Wake the fuck up genius,’ his mind cries out to him. He is helpless and nothing can stop him from taking this dive, plunging and sinking. Mick drew in a breath to allow himself to calm down, but how can he when those big brutes are collected at the end of the stage, adding to the chaos.
“Now baby it’s alright,” he called out the lyrics of his song. Funny that they should sound insecure and shaky when he’s sang these words a dozen times. The people will never know just how much he wanted those words to mean true to its core.
‘This has got to be fucking bullocks; you need to take control of this. NOW.’ His mind panics and the guitar comes screeching into his ear. Mick flinches, his conscious active again as he darts to Keith and shoves out the unrehearsed words of, “Keith-- Keith-- Keith! Will you just cool it for a moment!”
The guitar broke off and Mick isn’t sure if he’s ready to face the crowd without the security of the music. “Brothers and sisters,” his voice tries to speak in the fashionable hippie chant to try and gain back the attention to only go unnoticed. He spots Keith looking at him wondering if he’ll get out to the masses. Stop-- stop--stop; it has to-- he can’t do this; he’s never lost control this bad, it viscously spews in his face like an angry dragon about to swoop down and make a swift kill. His eyes were large saucer-gazed and horrified at what would happen now. Keith was fluttering out to the side of his cerulean eyes, waiting and watching.
Keith was confused; he was afraid but he couldn’t be. The crowd swarmed in waves that rolled the non-light off like a shaking dog ridding itself of the unwanted wetness. This is a test. It has to be one big fucking test of him. He grasped his guitar like a weapon-- he could use it on someone if they got to close. Mick was boxed in, his posture to un-confident. What if they turned on Mick-- no, Keith couldn’t think like that. Something was cracking here; whether it be the hippies or the Angels, he couldn’t do it.
Somebody had to be there and act like the outlaw. What if he lost Mick from his sights? What if those brutes decided to set their sights on his singer? Rather if Hell decides to rip open with those violent messengers to tell him that they’re going to capture and condemn his singer? His attitude flares up in lime green and he’s alert of it. ‘Please don’t let them do it,’ Keith mind chants over and over. ‘Please, please, please.’ Mick looked like he would drown and Keith wanted to be there to help.
He felt like a helpless man, flailing his arms. In a situation that couldn't get any worse, he was tossed a bag of bricks to drag him down into the open mouth of a strong and destructive sea. "I knew performing could be dangerous but never like this." Sure they’ve ran into a considerable amount of trouble over the years: Frankfurt, Copenhagen, Amsterdam, New York, London and other little places that spring to mind; this is something completely different and it’s frightening.
They’ve pinned him to his back, flailing and unheard, the violence collecting at the lip of the stage. You’re not in power; it will repeat over and over, like a record playing on a turn-table. Repeat it. Forever will his mind act like an evil and brutish film-strip, replaying a night's worth of horror and unwanted emotions would brim to their top. A quiver will pass, a violent shudder, something; 'I want it to go away.'
These Angels are so ferocious and angry, just beating up people. How is this the resulting product of California, man? Aren’t they supposed to be peaceful people? Just these flower children blundering about in field of flowers and chanting peace, with interlocked arms and laced fingers? A lot has to have slipped under the waves of paranoia and destruction.
All of it doesn’t fit. Oozing out the places they have been cracked in. Just leaking.
'These bits are wrong of you." It was something that would resonate through his mind.
Keith is on alert. He has to be for Mick’s sake. Several times they have connected with each other, one in fear and the other fear inspired defenses. Keith has to be the one to help Mick out. He rushes forwards into the beast without his armor and takes hold of the mike to project his words into the crowd, “If those cats don’t stop, we don‘t play.” Keith hopes this will go well but the guitarist meets with much more of a brutal force. Another leather jacketed Angel-- Christ, why were they ever called Angels?-- rushes the mic, using his figure to block-out everything.
Just brute force keeps from exploding this situation from a possible death-ride.
What a nightmare.
Everything just culminates to a point where nothing is set but to drain; deflating was the reasonable action when the crowd seemingly died down of its conjecture. All can now enjoy this smooth amour as the music is now placed back at the head of the platter. People sang, they cried out for more, hands were waved and Mick finished it with a basket of petals; briefly he threw them as the petals temporarily budded into the air and be cast off into the crowd, fingers waiting for the soft flowers to land on them.
An escape finds them hauling to their metal escape. It thickly collects the bodies of the people who try to get away. It shakes and squawks in protest at why they are furnishing it to its maximum. Nobody cares except with the thought of getting the fuck out of there. Mick and Keith find each other in the midst of the disarray that shields them. Fingers connected in a bond of support to hope for a much better stunt. Now everything was a game; too surreal in dealing with the danger that is angrily delving down on them.
No one speaks-- what is there to say? “I’m sorry lads, but I’ve just been informed of the damages.” Or, “Hey, there’s been an accident out there.” Nothing can prepare them.
A pin-drop. The sound is silent. They’re hotel room seems more bare. The walls seem to flare up in invisible eyes, as though a thousand photographers are on the spot, greedily taking in everything that was left exposed, raw and hanging out to curl pathetically on the floor. Their teeth clash and chatter; drums seem to pound out their heart-beats in an undefined tune.
The sun has already retreated in the sky so long ago; a destructive, toneless darkness has slithered into their minds. The others sleep, nothing else can be left that requires them. Mick and Keith don’t speak-- couldn’t speak. They culminate themselves in their bed, the soft sheets feeling miles away. Mick supposes that they should feel horrified about this. He could hear how bad it could have been. He’d seen it with his own eyes but honestly, it could have gone worse then expected.
It would only be a few weeks later when all of these series of pieces would push together. Right on that piece of carbon-strip does a disaster crack them open, bleeding out treacherously. Mick places his blue gaze on the tiny, glass screen, suddenly sober and alert, straightens his back and leans forwards. How is he supposed to react? A sharp breath and an apology? He wants to curl up and melt away from this.
That black boy, that loud green suit, a plunge of a silvery poison straight through the back. An Angel has descended on him, angrily eating at his back in large clamping jaws. It was all there-- a sickening reality that finally unmasked itself; no more then a few feet away from their stage had it happened. These last words spoken from the boy’s mouth was forever a sound that Mick would never make out. His feelings are jumbled in an ocean of uncertainty. He knows what the other people will take from this. Their scornful faces pushing to the surface. Their voices dripping with accusing tones.
They claw at his mind: Mick…
-‘What do you want now?’
You are such a horrible person…
-‘You judge me like that?
What about yourselves? Your society.’
You let it happen. How could you? Limey bastard.
-‘What am I supposed to do?
I’m not a fucking God.’
You act like it. Don’t you fucking run away from it.
-‘Because you expected me to.
Am I not good enough to live up to your expectations?’
--
Once I was a rich man and
Now I am so poor
But never in my sweet short life
Have I felt like this before
--
It’s an amazing execution that someone--
rather a band that was praised only a few months ago
can now be cast off as demons.
They blame him. All of that on him. Nobody takes the fall except him and his band. Keith snorts at it and turns away, opting to not blame it on the murderer. The promoter. Everyone is Scott-free. He’s been cracked apart by every jab and insult that thickly slides down into his soul, accumulating into thick puddles of gray muck. Mick struggles to light a cigarette because his hands can’t stifle that trembling. A hand comes over to cover his own, just staying there as Mick regards the next being beside him. Hazel eyes survey what all Mick has to offer. A small smile appears.
“It’s not your fault.”
That one note, that one little simple phrase is enough to waver him; it sparks and flutters through his, fast lightening crackling thorough him and he is set ablaze with those enclosed emotions that Mick tried so hard to build up away past a brick wall. It bursts his emotional levees and gushes like a geyser. A tremble ruffles him and the blocked emotions collapse on his head, bursting his seams, letting his insides coil out to splatter on the asphalt.
A hand shifts through his hair, quelling him of these pestering feelings. Keith folds his arms to Mick’s back. He allows sweet words to drip from his voice, hoping to soften the bow and reverse it onto himself. Mick’s palms clench at the fabric on Keith’s shirt. His fingers threaten to tear at the threads that make up Keith’s shirt.
“Don’t beat yourself up over this.”
Mick’s face remained to be pressed in Keith’s shirt. “It’s my fault Keith. I shouldn’t gone through with this bloody concert.”
“None of that now,” Keith tried. “stop trying to beat yourself up over events that were out of your hands.”
Mick drew back, his spindly figure lightly dithering in unused emotion. “But-- hell, I’m the bugger who’s supposed to be in control when things like that happen.” Mick was silently tearing himself up. His scorn falls heavily from his conscious, steadily delivering that sour blow to himself; his plush lips move in silent words but they were loud and clear, falling from his mouth like spells.
Keith pulls away and presses his lips to the side of Mick’s face, attentively kissing away the moisture on his pearly-colored skin, those cracked lips scrapping across in a gentle manor. “Stop being so bloody negative.”
“But I can’t help but feel respon--”
Keith brought up a finger and lightly pressed it to his mouth, effectively cutting of any speech welled up in Mick’s throat. Keith gazed at him, a silent gesture that spoke in dozens of tones and volumes, each holding their own accord that struck differently with Mick. Like lightening, it was a different stroke and streak. Mick hushes into silence and allows Keith to just comfort him, allowing his best friend to just wipe away the harsh, biting ire that threatens to over-load his senses.
The public would explode with this. The accusations: ‘The Angel, The Crow, and the Five Pieces of Stones.’ Everything is forlorn and dark; nothing can penetrate the aura that has fixated to their beings. Either way they’ll get through it. They always will-- need to in order to finally move on.
Forever to be branded with a label or death.
"The day the music died." Oh, really now? It dies everyday; it's just not noticeable.