This took too long.
Wow, this took longer then expected. I've been working on so many stories right now. I've got one almost at 10K, an unfinished Who story, and a couple of others. Here is one that I just finally finished.
Title: Between The Lines of Fear And Blame
Rating: R
Pairings:Keith/Mick, implied Brian/Mick, Gram Parsons/Keith,
Word Count: 6250
Disclaimer: Like always, fake, fake, fake, fake and more fake.
Mick sat on the plush covers of his bed. Covers were discharging and running over the bed to curl up on the marble floors, crinkling into lonely buildups. A few pieces of his comforter were twisted around his bony ankles. His back was molded to the headboard of his bed. His were dully surveying the room in which he was inhabiting.
Noises and voices were muffled and pouring in through his door. They filtered in through the cracks and crevices that his door had to offer along with his room’s walls; laced with the voices and noises was a faint sound of music. Mick’s lined pajamas were messy and crinkled. Long, nimble fingers were lightly scratching at his pants. The singer’s long nails were absently making invisible paths.
A cigarette was clenched between his lips. Blue irises watched as bloated plumes of smoke unfolded lazily into the air. The stony, heavy ash tray lay off to the side, thickly lined with other discarded cigarette’s. Mick leaned his head back and just watched the smoke wishing that he could just fade away as easily as the smoke could. To leave this light of fame and press that hounded him and his band. All Mick wished for was some peace.
A large crash had quickly vibrated through the walls, stirring Mick from his hazy thoughts; it was followed by dampened laughter and Mick just wrinkled his nose in disdain for those voices. A grandfather-clock beside him noted that it was late in the night or early in the morning depending on who was looking at the time. It was really early to Mick at least: two in the morning was a time when he was supposed to be sleeping which was why he really despised the hangers-on that Keith so openly welcomed the villa. They were so noisy. Mick also wondered just where did the grandfather-clock came from; he had suspected Charlie to have found it-- well they suspected anything that sophisticated that came in was on the part of Charlie.
Mick just slid down into the covers of his bed and closed his eyes, willing those other people to just disappear with the night’s darkness.
--
Baby blue’s stared at the clock. The clock seemingly staring back with the same intensity.
The moonlight spilled in through strips onto the clock. It highlighted the hands, reading 4:34 AM.
The house was much quieter then a few hours ago. The moonlight provided basic light for some vision to identify objects. Mick regarded the objects that were lying in the floor, abandoned and little though existed to clear them from the floor. A shrivel smell of combined others had mingled together. Eyes were on the door’s frame.
Mick stood up, feeling the covers fall of his sinewy frame. He felt that it was safer to go downstairs since the commotion had halted-- it was very likely that they all had passed out after a night of partying. It was so silent in the house that even the faintest heartbeat could be heard. The brunette’s eyes were trained on the door. It feels like Mick is waiting for something to happen. What it was something that the male couldn’t decipher. He isn’t sure, but its bubbling in his gut.
Feet made contact with warm tiled-floors, the marble texture very non-inviting. The floor felt grimy, grating against his skin as though it were telling him to just get back into bed and avoid whatever he was planning. Silence was greeting him everywhere he stepped. With a blank face, the singer moved gracefully across the dirty floor, his feet scraping aside fallen objects and discarded piles of clothes. With a steadying breath, Mick reached forwards and grasped the handle, opening it to exit the room.
Waiting darkness had greeted his eyes first. Before anything else could take place, a flux of smells assaulted his nasal cavities. Mick’s face morphed into a look of disgust as he could plainly tell which smells were which and what they came from. Mick allowed his feet to step ahead, the floor turning from a warm solid to a plush carpet. It still felt like it was slick with grime and other things that weren’t bothered to be cleaned up. There was a dull glow at the end of the hallway downstairs. It was a faint light, like it was fighting to even stay alive.
Stairs called out a low groan when Mick’s feet used them to escort himself to the first floor, his feet making contact with the floor that was slick with heat. He stepped on something wet and looked down to realize with a disgusting feeling that he had just stepped in the left-over’s of stomach juices sprayed on the floor. After a chill of disenchanted feelings washed over him, he had cleaned off his foot from the upchuck. Mick’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the so called ‘friends’ that were littering the floor; the so called ‘people’ that Keith allowed to vacate and camp out at the villa, those same ‘people’ that made Mick feel something akin to repugnant.
As Mick strolled into the kitchen, his feet lightly padding on the floor, he saw the outlining of a silhouette in the are. It was slightly hunched over the table that it was perched at. Upon clearer inspection, the singer could see the now recognizable rooster-like hair style, its strands cropped into odd angles. A random chord had unrepentantly whisked into his ear, followed by a random curse afterwards, the unmistakable voice of Keith Richards. A hazy trail of soot was beside the figure, located in a glass trey, its burning end very dim and indicating that it wasn’t going to be alive for long.
Keith had a tendency to stay up all night when his productivity decided to kick in. He would then sleep off most of the day later and begin his nocturnal routine again. Mick didn’t count what kept the guitarist up though the night, other then a steady dosage of drugs, the guitarist was naturally hyper so it was a bit of a task trying to calm down. Other then the parties and random people dropping by-- Eric Clapton had actually dropped by to watch football (soccer) on the TV they had and John Lennon, with Yoko, came to visit, and promptly threw-up after spending about forty-five minutes there-- nothing was out of the ordinary with Keith.
The figure stopped and reach out a hand to another part of the table. The fuzzy lights decided to take that time to power up and highlight what was in Keith’s hands. A silver glimmer had come from the thin pointed needle and the body soon followed afterwards. He saw as Keith held it up to the light, inspecting the surface and steadily laid out his arm. Mick felt sick as he watched Keith unload its contents into his arm, leaving nothing behind in the holster. Mick wanted to gag when he saw that. Part of his mind told him that he wasn’t a saint like people believed-- he was trying all of the same things Keith did; it was just that Mick couldn’t stand for inserting needles which was why he stuck to smoking heroin instead.
The shaggy-haired head swiveled around to face Mick. If Mick was closer, he was sure he would have seen Keith’s eyelids dilate into small pinpoints. Keith’s face looked at Mick coolly before turning back to his guitar, obviously he wasn’t interested that Mick was standing in the kitchen with him; he was in one of his productivity modes and he was less concerned about Mick watching him. Locks of unwashed hair fell into Keith’s face and he moved them away for them to only stubbornly fall back into place. He sighed and looked up to still see Mick there.
“Oh, hello Mick,” he said flatly. “You’re still here because?”
Mick could see the slight bit of growth on Keith’s face, suggesting that Keith hadn’t bothered with bathing himself. There was a sentence on his lips, right at the tip of his tongue, but they never transferred into his mind, so he just stood there. Even though Mick had started to grow accustomed to watching Keith and whoever happened to be around him, shoot up an arm-load of smack and just pass out later on. He still felt out of the loop; Keith spent more and more time being under the influence of heroin and it was starting to interfere with many things. From the distance that Mick was located he could tell that Keith’s eyes were still probably glazed with the influence of whatever drug was mixed in with that smack he just took.
"Keith…” came the slow reply.
He wanted to curl up. To not be in this place that Keith so warmly called ‘home’; it was a tedious atmosphere and very frustrating at the same time. He hated it every time that Keith could shoot up and potentially die from it. It was a very unnerving situation. Maybe a few years back Mick hadn’t minded the recreational use of it, but now it was steadily growing out of control and Mick couldn’t stop it. Bianca, his new wife, wasn’t comfortable with Keith’s love of needles; plus, this was no atmosphere for a pregnant woman to be (not to mention the fact that Anita, who was very hospitable to her, kept trying to curse her and trying all she could to drive Bianca out; he also thanked Bianca because she could sense the tension it was causing to Mick and Keith and wisely backed out of it).
In the back of Mick’s mind, doubts had already began to take place about this. Possibly one day, Keith could die. Mick never allowed himself to imagine that scenario. He also knew, with the help of a lesser known voice, the he too could die from his powdery habit. Cocaine was becoming a staple in his life. Many people that Mick had knew of were dropping like flies while trying to keep up with Keith. The singer couldn’t ignore this fact any longer.
A slow grin had morphed onto Keith’s face. "Does it make you jealous, Mick?”
Mick didn’t allow himself to say anything. He just let Keith continue.
“To know that I’m favoring something over you? Knowing that it would lure me into its sweet embrace of death?”
Keith began to rise to his feet. He set the guitar to the side and it fell over. Keith briefly looked at the guitar, concern dampening his eyes for a moment before he turned back to Mick. He had started to position himself in front of Mick.
It did. It made him jealous, angry, bitter, possessive, hurt and everywhere in between. It made those horrible feelings incinerate his insides, boiling them with white-hot acid that was very dangerous. No longer was Mick the centre of Keith’s world. Old Lady Heroin never denied Keith a moment of satisfaction whereas Mick did.
“You feel it, don’t you?” Keith took a step forward, his feet sliding across the floor.
He wasn’t familiar with this boy. The one of many years ago that just lived down the street. Who played in the sandbox with him, who laughed with him; that little boy who constantly chattered about being the next Roy Rodgers and those big, ridiculous ears that stuck out on his head.. Ricky from high school. No, it was something different. That boy he had always saw was just a memory. He stayed yesterday and was gone tomorrow. Now there just some junkie boy with a guitar that always pushed himself to make music and to the brink of what drugs would allow before releasing their slimy grip on him.
Shadows were attaching to Keith’s face, seemingly more predator-like then ever before. Mick’s blue eyes couldn’t help in darting to his arms. Petals of bruises were in bloom on his arms, punctuated by a small pin sized hole where the needle was withdrawn. Dread slipped into Mick’s stomach when he realized just how many of these little flowers were on Keith’s arms.
“Cheers for a souvenir, eh Mick?” Keith waved the emptied needle in front of Mick’s face. It looked like Keith had drained the life from the object; when in reverse, the golden-brown liquid had just done it to Keith. Mick was waiting for something to happen. Maybe the earth would spring to life and allow Mick to be swallowed up, maybe it would suck out the demon that plagued Keith’s veins, maybe it would do something. Like a panther, Keith slinked forward to Mick’s rooted spot. The singer is rooted to his spot, unable to process why he was supposed to be there.
It nearly tears him up inside. Those parasites had invaded Keith’s body and now they were changing him. For the worse was these little parasite’s common goal. He hates it when Keith is like this; he can’t stand the sight of it, hating to be near Keith when he was, Cold fingers are reaching for Mick, sliding up around his cheek and resting under a clump of brown hair that has fallen in his face. It hurts like a fist to the stomach never will.
“Keith,” he finally utters, his voice working properly after a while. “Don’t do this. You can’t keep this up too long.” Deep down, the brunette wants this to be true. That this was just some very misleading dream and he would just magically spring forth from it to greet Keith in a happy mood.
Keith was still sliding his hand around Mick’s face. His eyes were half-lidded and he was still gazing at Mick. “Why can’t I? Isn’t this what you wanted, huh Mick?”
Mick is bewildered at this.
“Isn’t what you wanted was to make music? To know that everyone loves you? Well, almost anyone.”
“But not like this,” Mick whispers and tries to ignore the feeling of those fingers dancing around his skin. It feels like such a hollow feeling from this. Mick hates it. “You can’t keep his up. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. You can die.”
The fingers stopped. Keith’s expression is unreadable. The entire universe has stopped operating when Keith’s fingers had stopped. Silence rings except the one sound that both of them can hear: their own breaths that pass through each other.
“You don’t need the drugs Keith,” Mick whispers again.
Keith tilts his head to the side, locks of hair swaying to the side with him. His eyes had hardened.
“What I need?” he inquires curiously and softly. “How would you know what I need?” His eyes switched from Mick to his own arm and back.
Mick opened his mouth to answer, but Keith cut him off. “Stop right there Mick,” Keith speaks up. “You need to quit with making my decisions for me. You know what I need?” Keith scoffed. “Please, spare me the hero non-sense. Get your head out of your arse and off that high-horse you so made yourself comfortable on.” Hardened chocolate eyes stared head-on into wavering blue ones.
It felt as though Mick had been shot. This seemed to lodge him from his seeming stupor attitude. “Me? My high-horse? How can you say that when you don’t even know? You spend your time fucking nodding out, so it’s no wonder that I have to make the decisions.”
“Shut your bloody mouth if you’re going to spew bullocks out,” Keith spat. “Just because you’re the fucking singer doesn’t mean you can exert your control on everyone.” Keith began to let his hand drop. “Can’t other people have a say? No they can’t because you’re just on one big fucking power trip.”
Mick bit down on his tongue to keep a rather nasty comment from tumbling out his mouth. Mick stood fast in the front of Keith’s hurricane. Even if he could ignore Keith’s biting comments, it still tore into him. Mick is still uneasy but quickly keeps it covered.
“You cant really say I don’t let anyone speak,” Mick began off slowly. “Nobody is willing to come forward and help me with it; no one is willing to sit down in meetings and put in advise. It‘s me alone who had to start doing it. I’m the one that has to take care of tours, I’m the one who has to look after the finances, I’m the one who has schedule studio sessions, I’m the one who has to basically draw out all the fucking plans of the bands future. And where are you at?” Mick allowed himself to stop to gaze into the embittered stare Keith fixed him. “Fucking nodding out because of smack or late because you wanted to score. A fucking junkie who thinks more highly of his drugs then to put in some effort to his own bloody band.”
Keith is stunned that Mick said that. Never would he allow Mick to let him know that he was hurt by this. All of those points had resonated and echoed through his conscious thought. He knew there was truth behind those words. Just as he began to think about him, a part was infuriated. How dare Mick paint himself a saint and Keith the bad guy. Didn’t he put in the effort in studios? In live acts? Why was Mick supposed to be dictating his every more?
“Don’t try to be a fucking saint here, Michael.” Mick tensed when he heard Keith use his real name. “You know what? You’re not God. Stop trying to act like. You can’t just control everything that goes on around.” It was times to completely knock Mick down from the high spot that he had started to fancy,
“It’s just like Brian, ain’t it?”
Mick’s eyes narrowed, then they widened at who Keith was referencing. His eyes were livid slits and he set on fire with anger. Never did the singer think that Keith would allow himself to bring up that topic and Mick never thought that he would use it to insult his pride.
“You do remember, don’t you?” Keith taunted. “Or did you block it out already?”
“How did you--”
“Anita.” Keith stated simply. “She old me a while ago.”
That’s right. Anita had been Brian’s former girlfriend and Keith’s current one. The one that had extended her claws into them both with her destructive beauty. He wouldn’t be surprised if Brian had told Anita, but he had been surprised that she Keith. Even though he hated her guts, they had begun to bond in this hellish-like state in this villa. They were bonding over their mutual hate for one of the house guests here and Keith’s current new drug experimenting buddy: Gram Parsons.
It was strange to put it mildly. To have those memories unburied from where Mick had so meticulously buried them in hopes of never remembering. Something was pouring in his head. Regret? Anguish over how it ended? Helplessness? Whatever it was, it was enough to keep Mick from speaking out.
Keith finally decided to come back to Mick, his hands darting out to reach the older boy; Keith also made circular paths around Mick’s body, as though he was excavating this new-found territory. Fingers slowly assigned themselves to patches of Mick’s boy and drug themselves around those areas. An arm began to curl around Mick’s chest and bring him back, Keith’s chest connecting with the firm back of Mick. Mick’s shoulders were tense.
“I wonder Mick,” Keith said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Did you really think that this would stay out of the light? Sooner or later it was going to come out whether you liked it or not. Was it that bad that you felt the need to just forget it? Or was it so frightening that you couldn‘t handle the situation?”
With a languid grace, Keith encircled Mick’s waist from behind. The brunette just stood there, staring stonily into space.
It wasn’t that planned, his meeting with Brian. It was spontaneous, lovely, dangerous. It manifested form tensions and ambitions. That seedy little place of Edith Grove. The filth encrusted walls but yet it was filled with aspirations and the will to survive. That fevering situation that Mick and Brian had painted themselves into could no longer be avoided. Even though it had happened a few times, both had vowed to never speak of it again. Brian must have slipped in a moment of whatever it could have been. But like always, it did get out-- only to Anita but she probably could care less about what it was.
It left Mick exposed for some reason. How Brian had pulled a piece out of him like nothing before and he felt… exploited? In some way Brian revealed a weaker side of him. Both became somewhat spiteful towards each other, yet they were very nice with each other; it was like a love/hate thing. One night stands did become a bit common between the two, but that was only in the early days. It cut off around when Anita had entered the picture. Brian was left a changed man after meeting Anita and it wasn’t for the good.
Mick hated this. Keith was extracting a part of him that he though was buried and long gone. He was desperate to get this attention away from the past and turn it over somewhere else. Just as he began to think of a way to deflect this attention, an idea popped into his mind. His eyes narrowed and he straightened his back, a tense feeling overcoming his body.
“And you Keith? Are you sure that there is nothing wrong with you?”
Keith stopped his fingers from tracing their customary paths down his shirt. He pushed his face deeper into the slope of Mick’s neck and shoulder.
“Am I?” came a quiet whisper.
“You are. In that new buddy you have, Gram.”
Keith’s eyes darted upwards and he retreated his hand. Keith opened his mouth but could find no words to speak. He just stood there. He just couldn’t believe that Mick decided to bring in his friend.
“Leave Gram out of this,” he said defiantly. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”
Mick twisted around in Keith’s embrace, his nose touching with the guitarist’s. Blue eyes were narrowed. Keith unlocked his arms, opting to step back from his singer.
“You think you can just come in here and say that about me?” Mick replied with a tight response. “You’re all over him all the time. Always scheming with him.”
Mick knew it was childish to point at Gram, but honestly he hated the country boy. He probably had absolutely no reason to, but he couldn’t help but become jealous over how he was interacting with Keith. Because he was stealing Keith’s attention, Mick had become extremely possessive and he hated how Gram was doing it. He felt betrayed somehow by Keith. Everything that Mick did with Keith, the guitarist turned around and did them with Gram. They wrote together, played together, hung out together. Mick was tense and began to put up an angry front to Gram, hoping to discourage and push the boy away in hopes of gaining Keith back to himself.
Keith mashed his teeth together, biting his tongue to keep himself from jumping towards Mick and hurling a good right hook to that face of his. His palms were slick with sweat as the anger swelled inside. Why was Mick bringing up kin? Whether the reason was for good (he doubted that) or bad, he believed that Mick had no right to do that.
“Just stop right there. Just fucking stop.” Keith sucked in a sharp breath.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, huh? What right do you have to talk about someone who has done absolutely nothing to you? Why are you suddenly pinning on Gram?”
“You’re just assuming Keith,” Mick said simply, though there was a lesser force behind those words.
“No, you are.”
“There you go now Keith,” Mick said. “You’re defending something when there is no need to. You’re really with that boy so much. I wouldn’t be surprised if you already sucked him off.”
Nothing passed through them. Mick was slightly horrified that he had said that. Was he really that jealous of Gram? He deeply regretted it when he saw the murderous that melted onto Keith’s face. His eyes were wide, before narrowing into acidic gazes. Mick took in a preparing breath, waiting for when Keith would spew out that ugly speech that was deeply brewing in his mind.
“You.” Mick cringed slightly when he heard the glacial tone. “You idiot.”
Keith still had yet to move. He hated Mick. To everything and back, he hated that cunt that stood there in front of hi. Everything about him was so intolerable and unbearably trying. How he stood there in front of him like he was supposed to be the one who could act like God. Everything about Mick just makes Keith want to spit at him.
Something stirs inside of Mick. He doesn’t know but he now feels like he possibly made the biggest mistake in his life.
“You’re a fucking hypocrite.” Keith’s tone is calm, yet there is a sense of peril laced in there. “You stand there, judge me, tell me, command me and you won’t allow me the same rights? You advocate so much about how disgusting you find that. Well you know? You’re just a lonely, insecure child.”
All of Mick’s thoughts break when he heard that last piece. Lonely? Insecure? A fucking child? There can’t be any way that he is like that. Just no way. Keith was forcing his problems onto him and it made him quire upset over it. Why did Keith deem it necessary to put up Mick’s problems when Keith was blatantly running away from his own? The police. The taxes. The money. The drug casualties. Everything.
.
Mick lets out a chuckles. “It’s funny isn’t it?” Mick’s tone is completely humorless and devoid of sympathy. “You’re being so serious of me. Just always making a decision about me. Haven’t you taken a look at all of you’re problems yet? No you don’t. Just keep running away like you always do.”
“Stop spewing out some old bullshit,” Keith replies sharply.
“There you go again. Deflecting your own problems,” Mick’s voice steadily turns more hostile. “Really Keith, can you just cut the same old cowboy, outlaw image and just face up yourself?”
Keith opens his mouth and stops. Perhaps Mick wasn’t being that coy person he was used to seeing; the one that easily slid out of problems and never gave a full-on answer? A part of Keith wanted to submit to it. To actually drop this.
But… there was always that part of him that hated how Mick acted. The constant drugs, women (he sometimes knew of the men Mick would take), bullshit interviews; things that Mick should be truthful for.
“I think you’re scared Mick.” The tone is simply. There are no other emotions present in his voice. Nothing is there to indicate the previous attitude.
Mick is quiet. He doesn’t dare to breath a word. Mick shifts from foot to foot, an obvious sign that he is nervous.
“Tell me this Mick,” Keith begins to query. “Why are you so insecure?”
Cerulean eyes gaze in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“You know.” A soft reply brushes softly.
Keith begins to move his feet, small steps that put Mick on edge for reasons unspecified. “I know who you are. It’s so different from what the public perceives. You don’t like I when people know the real you. Everyone knows Mick, but I know Michael. You don’t like it when people find you out under all of that perfected image. You’re scared. You fuck everyone over so you don’t have to worry about anything because you see yourself in the same situation.”
As overwrought aura had slid into place. Everything seems bloated to a point of explosion. The words sank into the singer, each word angrily tearing at his soul. His lungs feel as though they would overheat. Perhaps Keith was right. Keith pinned the truth on the donkey, complete bulls-eye. A voice chides in his head that Keith knows him to this point. Maybe it was himself that had changed the most instead of Keith.
Shaking his head, Keith ejects out more caustic words that were just ready to breach his lips and rids them from his mind. His eyes tell him that he’s probably done more damage then he’s intended to. He closely eyes the figure belonging to his singer; he waiting for Mick to have a reaction. He gets it but it wasn’t as he expected it to be.
A burned-out sigh escapes from Mick’s thick lips, his head tilting backwards to the ceiling. With unfocused eyes, Mick finally answers with, “Maybe you are right Keith.” It’s so soft that Keith has to strain his ears to catch these words. There is also something in that voice that Keith isn’t familiar with. Defeat?
Keith could understand how frightened one can get because of the problems that they faced. Keith might not admit it fully, but Mick shouldered so much of the band and nobody was willing to take any of it off of him. Keith spent a lot of the meetings nodding out on smack or simply not attending at all. He’s already missed quite a few now. Keith decides that he wants to end this confrontation before it turns out of hand and becomes something that not even both of them can settle.
“But you know Mick,” Keith says softly and allows himself to move towards the singer. Mick unhurriedly lowers his head to gaze at Keith in an enervated way. “You don’t have to do this. Stop all of the fake images and let people know how you feel. Don’t throw people away because of your insecurities. How is anyone supposed to trust you if you keep that up?”
Nothing was happening inside of Mick’s brain. Just a dead silence that was obliging Keith’s words access. Keith finally placed himself in front of Mick. He slid his fingers again across Mick’s pale h\cheek; it settled just under a lock of brown hair.
“What will it take to let it go?”
“I don’t know,” Mick says airily.
Keith then pressed his forehead onto Mick’s. They stood this way for a while. It wasn’t until Mick enveloped Keith’s waist with his arms and allowed the warmth of the other body to invade his senses. It had been a long time since they had fought like this. Luckily this time they hadn’t come to blows with each other. Mick was caught in his thoughts until a pair of chapped lips were roaming his neck.
“I’m sorry,” came Keith’s unexpected voice.
Mick blinked. “You’re--”
Keith snorted. “I don’t say this much to y’, but I am. I shouldn’t have brought those things up.”
“Neither should I.”
“But-- fucking hell. It’s just when I get so angry, I can’t help butt--”
Mick squeezed tighter on Keith’s lower body, effectively cutting off any sentence that was waiting to be let out of Keith’s throat. “Hey,” Mick said encouragingly, “we’re past that. Let’s act like civilized adults here. You’re sorry, I’m sorry; let’s just leave it at that.”
Keith let a smile grace his lips when he heard that Mick was okay with it. Mick was glad that he hadn’t pushed Keith away with his comments. The brunette wouldn’t know what to do with himself if Keith lefty. His spark in his life would have been gone. He relished this embrace. It wasn’t until a few moments later when he realized the presence of a hand slinking around his hips did he break off his thoughts.
“Even after all that fighting, you still want a shag?” Mick said in a hint of disbelief.
“Well, you got me in a mood and I want to get rid of that.” Keith pulled his head away from Mick’s neck and waggled his eyebrows at Mick. The older boy just laughed.
“Let’s take this upstairs, if you may--”
Mick couldn’t get the whole sentence out because Keith had suddenly connected his lips with Mick’s, Keith’s tongue demanding access and on instinct, Mick opened up. There was that bitter emotion and Mick could feel the ferocity of Keith’s mood in that one contact alone. Fingers darted out to caress each others sides, to carve a path down to their hips; they excavated anywhere they could seek out. Both males took pleasure in the others presence, and they showed this by tugging at the clothes they both were wearing.
“It would be better if we could rid these,” Keith murmured against Mick’s neck when he broke away, pulling on the shirt Mick wore.
“It would be better if we continue upstairs. It’s got a bed.”
They both unfolded from each others embrace. Mick grasped Keith’s hand and tugged him towards the stairs. Along the way, there were several detours: they spent time nearly shoving each other against the wall for a small but heavy make-out session, each not able to get enough of the other male. They were somehow graceful when stepping over forgotten pieces of furniture, passed-out people, clothes and other little things that so happened to litter the floor as though it were a battle filed.
Clothes were almost combatively torn off. Several grunts were made to tell the other to take it easy on the clothes, but either of them just forgot about them. Heated breath ghosted over flesh. Keith’s guitar-skilled fingers roamed over what he liked to call his ‘personal instrument’; it allowed him to fully exercise his skilled fingers, seeing if he really could make a guitar come to life. He practiced them out on his own canvas. Moans were pressing through the air and the room became aglow with their own body heat. Their rhythm was established and both came together for a secret dance that both had perfected.
The bed began to knock in repeated paces against the wall, signaling that dance had begun. Sheets became sweat drenched and crinkled. Fingers grasped at the linen, a handle that life was still going on. Mick’s legs were locked around Keith’s waist as Keith drove forwards, pushing himself deeper into that body that was so willing for him. Keith’s mouth was there, to collect every moan he was able to generate from Mick’s body. They soon melted together, both coming a high.
They would collapse with each other, both too spent to do anything else. Keith and Mick just embraced each other on that bed, the covers now tangled around their sinewy, moisture-ridden bodies.
“I love you,” came Keith’s sleep-ridden voice.
“And I love you too.”
--
Eyes jolted open to only cringe away from the light had so rudely invaded. Stoned eyes were half-open, staring blurrily at the surroundings. Palms went to shield the eyes from the light.
Anita languidly sat up. Stretching her muscles, she yawned and felt her joints crack. The window indicated that it just have been early. The room was warm. Anita then slowly pushed off the ground into a wobbly standing position.
Her mind was a little suppressed due to a night of drugs; those downers she took were still in her system from the previous night/morning/whatever it would be called. Long, cat-like fingers scratched fuzzily at hair that had fanned out messily around her head. Her mind developed the concept that there were some downers somewhere around here and began a search for them, most of the German-Italian woman’s efforts half-hearted.
The floors creaked with every sloppy move that she made across them. Anita had enough presence in mind to step over the fallen people on the ground. Gretchen, Gram’s wife, was lying on the couch and Gram was nowhere to be found. Anita didn’t care because she wasn’t concerned. She piled through the clothes that Gretchen had, not caring that she was invading the other woman’s privacy.
The stairs made groaning noises as Anita went up them. Green eyes were washed over with the after affects of the drugs. She took a look at the first room and her eyes went to the doorknob. She opened it and stared inside, scanning the dressers, nightstands and pretty much anything Anita could recognize.
Her eyes lit up when she saw Keith in the bed. Her foot tapped some type of fabric on the ground and she saw a shirt and some other clothes. Mick’s pajama bottom was right in the doorway. Anita then peered at the Keith’s foot sticking from under the covers along with a much lighter-skinned foot. Keith’s arms were enveloped around another and vice-versa. It looked like Mick, but the hair was scattered everywhere. After a moment, she decided that it was Mick. Anita stood there, her mind slow at processing and put it all together. She shrugged her shoulders and turned away
Anita turned on her heels and went down to the room she normally slept in. Eyes alight with the bottle she had been searching for, she downed them and lied in her bed. Before all thought had collapsed from it, Anita had quickly thought, “As long as Keith isn’t with another woman, I’m fine,” before everything went black again.
Title: Between The Lines of Fear And Blame
Rating: R
Pairings:Keith/Mick, implied Brian/Mick, Gram Parsons/Keith,
Word Count: 6250
Disclaimer: Like always, fake, fake, fake, fake and more fake.
Mick sat on the plush covers of his bed. Covers were discharging and running over the bed to curl up on the marble floors, crinkling into lonely buildups. A few pieces of his comforter were twisted around his bony ankles. His back was molded to the headboard of his bed. His were dully surveying the room in which he was inhabiting.
Noises and voices were muffled and pouring in through his door. They filtered in through the cracks and crevices that his door had to offer along with his room’s walls; laced with the voices and noises was a faint sound of music. Mick’s lined pajamas were messy and crinkled. Long, nimble fingers were lightly scratching at his pants. The singer’s long nails were absently making invisible paths.
A cigarette was clenched between his lips. Blue irises watched as bloated plumes of smoke unfolded lazily into the air. The stony, heavy ash tray lay off to the side, thickly lined with other discarded cigarette’s. Mick leaned his head back and just watched the smoke wishing that he could just fade away as easily as the smoke could. To leave this light of fame and press that hounded him and his band. All Mick wished for was some peace.
A large crash had quickly vibrated through the walls, stirring Mick from his hazy thoughts; it was followed by dampened laughter and Mick just wrinkled his nose in disdain for those voices. A grandfather-clock beside him noted that it was late in the night or early in the morning depending on who was looking at the time. It was really early to Mick at least: two in the morning was a time when he was supposed to be sleeping which was why he really despised the hangers-on that Keith so openly welcomed the villa. They were so noisy. Mick also wondered just where did the grandfather-clock came from; he had suspected Charlie to have found it-- well they suspected anything that sophisticated that came in was on the part of Charlie.
Mick just slid down into the covers of his bed and closed his eyes, willing those other people to just disappear with the night’s darkness.
--
Baby blue’s stared at the clock. The clock seemingly staring back with the same intensity.
The moonlight spilled in through strips onto the clock. It highlighted the hands, reading 4:34 AM.
The house was much quieter then a few hours ago. The moonlight provided basic light for some vision to identify objects. Mick regarded the objects that were lying in the floor, abandoned and little though existed to clear them from the floor. A shrivel smell of combined others had mingled together. Eyes were on the door’s frame.
Mick stood up, feeling the covers fall of his sinewy frame. He felt that it was safer to go downstairs since the commotion had halted-- it was very likely that they all had passed out after a night of partying. It was so silent in the house that even the faintest heartbeat could be heard. The brunette’s eyes were trained on the door. It feels like Mick is waiting for something to happen. What it was something that the male couldn’t decipher. He isn’t sure, but its bubbling in his gut.
Feet made contact with warm tiled-floors, the marble texture very non-inviting. The floor felt grimy, grating against his skin as though it were telling him to just get back into bed and avoid whatever he was planning. Silence was greeting him everywhere he stepped. With a blank face, the singer moved gracefully across the dirty floor, his feet scraping aside fallen objects and discarded piles of clothes. With a steadying breath, Mick reached forwards and grasped the handle, opening it to exit the room.
Waiting darkness had greeted his eyes first. Before anything else could take place, a flux of smells assaulted his nasal cavities. Mick’s face morphed into a look of disgust as he could plainly tell which smells were which and what they came from. Mick allowed his feet to step ahead, the floor turning from a warm solid to a plush carpet. It still felt like it was slick with grime and other things that weren’t bothered to be cleaned up. There was a dull glow at the end of the hallway downstairs. It was a faint light, like it was fighting to even stay alive.
Stairs called out a low groan when Mick’s feet used them to escort himself to the first floor, his feet making contact with the floor that was slick with heat. He stepped on something wet and looked down to realize with a disgusting feeling that he had just stepped in the left-over’s of stomach juices sprayed on the floor. After a chill of disenchanted feelings washed over him, he had cleaned off his foot from the upchuck. Mick’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the so called ‘friends’ that were littering the floor; the so called ‘people’ that Keith allowed to vacate and camp out at the villa, those same ‘people’ that made Mick feel something akin to repugnant.
As Mick strolled into the kitchen, his feet lightly padding on the floor, he saw the outlining of a silhouette in the are. It was slightly hunched over the table that it was perched at. Upon clearer inspection, the singer could see the now recognizable rooster-like hair style, its strands cropped into odd angles. A random chord had unrepentantly whisked into his ear, followed by a random curse afterwards, the unmistakable voice of Keith Richards. A hazy trail of soot was beside the figure, located in a glass trey, its burning end very dim and indicating that it wasn’t going to be alive for long.
Keith had a tendency to stay up all night when his productivity decided to kick in. He would then sleep off most of the day later and begin his nocturnal routine again. Mick didn’t count what kept the guitarist up though the night, other then a steady dosage of drugs, the guitarist was naturally hyper so it was a bit of a task trying to calm down. Other then the parties and random people dropping by-- Eric Clapton had actually dropped by to watch football (soccer) on the TV they had and John Lennon, with Yoko, came to visit, and promptly threw-up after spending about forty-five minutes there-- nothing was out of the ordinary with Keith.
The figure stopped and reach out a hand to another part of the table. The fuzzy lights decided to take that time to power up and highlight what was in Keith’s hands. A silver glimmer had come from the thin pointed needle and the body soon followed afterwards. He saw as Keith held it up to the light, inspecting the surface and steadily laid out his arm. Mick felt sick as he watched Keith unload its contents into his arm, leaving nothing behind in the holster. Mick wanted to gag when he saw that. Part of his mind told him that he wasn’t a saint like people believed-- he was trying all of the same things Keith did; it was just that Mick couldn’t stand for inserting needles which was why he stuck to smoking heroin instead.
The shaggy-haired head swiveled around to face Mick. If Mick was closer, he was sure he would have seen Keith’s eyelids dilate into small pinpoints. Keith’s face looked at Mick coolly before turning back to his guitar, obviously he wasn’t interested that Mick was standing in the kitchen with him; he was in one of his productivity modes and he was less concerned about Mick watching him. Locks of unwashed hair fell into Keith’s face and he moved them away for them to only stubbornly fall back into place. He sighed and looked up to still see Mick there.
“Oh, hello Mick,” he said flatly. “You’re still here because?”
Mick could see the slight bit of growth on Keith’s face, suggesting that Keith hadn’t bothered with bathing himself. There was a sentence on his lips, right at the tip of his tongue, but they never transferred into his mind, so he just stood there. Even though Mick had started to grow accustomed to watching Keith and whoever happened to be around him, shoot up an arm-load of smack and just pass out later on. He still felt out of the loop; Keith spent more and more time being under the influence of heroin and it was starting to interfere with many things. From the distance that Mick was located he could tell that Keith’s eyes were still probably glazed with the influence of whatever drug was mixed in with that smack he just took.
"Keith…” came the slow reply.
He wanted to curl up. To not be in this place that Keith so warmly called ‘home’; it was a tedious atmosphere and very frustrating at the same time. He hated it every time that Keith could shoot up and potentially die from it. It was a very unnerving situation. Maybe a few years back Mick hadn’t minded the recreational use of it, but now it was steadily growing out of control and Mick couldn’t stop it. Bianca, his new wife, wasn’t comfortable with Keith’s love of needles; plus, this was no atmosphere for a pregnant woman to be (not to mention the fact that Anita, who was very hospitable to her, kept trying to curse her and trying all she could to drive Bianca out; he also thanked Bianca because she could sense the tension it was causing to Mick and Keith and wisely backed out of it).
In the back of Mick’s mind, doubts had already began to take place about this. Possibly one day, Keith could die. Mick never allowed himself to imagine that scenario. He also knew, with the help of a lesser known voice, the he too could die from his powdery habit. Cocaine was becoming a staple in his life. Many people that Mick had knew of were dropping like flies while trying to keep up with Keith. The singer couldn’t ignore this fact any longer.
A slow grin had morphed onto Keith’s face. "Does it make you jealous, Mick?”
Mick didn’t allow himself to say anything. He just let Keith continue.
“To know that I’m favoring something over you? Knowing that it would lure me into its sweet embrace of death?”
Keith began to rise to his feet. He set the guitar to the side and it fell over. Keith briefly looked at the guitar, concern dampening his eyes for a moment before he turned back to Mick. He had started to position himself in front of Mick.
It did. It made him jealous, angry, bitter, possessive, hurt and everywhere in between. It made those horrible feelings incinerate his insides, boiling them with white-hot acid that was very dangerous. No longer was Mick the centre of Keith’s world. Old Lady Heroin never denied Keith a moment of satisfaction whereas Mick did.
“You feel it, don’t you?” Keith took a step forward, his feet sliding across the floor.
He wasn’t familiar with this boy. The one of many years ago that just lived down the street. Who played in the sandbox with him, who laughed with him; that little boy who constantly chattered about being the next Roy Rodgers and those big, ridiculous ears that stuck out on his head.. Ricky from high school. No, it was something different. That boy he had always saw was just a memory. He stayed yesterday and was gone tomorrow. Now there just some junkie boy with a guitar that always pushed himself to make music and to the brink of what drugs would allow before releasing their slimy grip on him.
Shadows were attaching to Keith’s face, seemingly more predator-like then ever before. Mick’s blue eyes couldn’t help in darting to his arms. Petals of bruises were in bloom on his arms, punctuated by a small pin sized hole where the needle was withdrawn. Dread slipped into Mick’s stomach when he realized just how many of these little flowers were on Keith’s arms.
“Cheers for a souvenir, eh Mick?” Keith waved the emptied needle in front of Mick’s face. It looked like Keith had drained the life from the object; when in reverse, the golden-brown liquid had just done it to Keith. Mick was waiting for something to happen. Maybe the earth would spring to life and allow Mick to be swallowed up, maybe it would suck out the demon that plagued Keith’s veins, maybe it would do something. Like a panther, Keith slinked forward to Mick’s rooted spot. The singer is rooted to his spot, unable to process why he was supposed to be there.
It nearly tears him up inside. Those parasites had invaded Keith’s body and now they were changing him. For the worse was these little parasite’s common goal. He hates it when Keith is like this; he can’t stand the sight of it, hating to be near Keith when he was, Cold fingers are reaching for Mick, sliding up around his cheek and resting under a clump of brown hair that has fallen in his face. It hurts like a fist to the stomach never will.
“Keith,” he finally utters, his voice working properly after a while. “Don’t do this. You can’t keep this up too long.” Deep down, the brunette wants this to be true. That this was just some very misleading dream and he would just magically spring forth from it to greet Keith in a happy mood.
Keith was still sliding his hand around Mick’s face. His eyes were half-lidded and he was still gazing at Mick. “Why can’t I? Isn’t this what you wanted, huh Mick?”
Mick is bewildered at this.
“Isn’t what you wanted was to make music? To know that everyone loves you? Well, almost anyone.”
“But not like this,” Mick whispers and tries to ignore the feeling of those fingers dancing around his skin. It feels like such a hollow feeling from this. Mick hates it. “You can’t keep his up. You don’t know what you’re dealing with. You can die.”
The fingers stopped. Keith’s expression is unreadable. The entire universe has stopped operating when Keith’s fingers had stopped. Silence rings except the one sound that both of them can hear: their own breaths that pass through each other.
“You don’t need the drugs Keith,” Mick whispers again.
Keith tilts his head to the side, locks of hair swaying to the side with him. His eyes had hardened.
“What I need?” he inquires curiously and softly. “How would you know what I need?” His eyes switched from Mick to his own arm and back.
Mick opened his mouth to answer, but Keith cut him off. “Stop right there Mick,” Keith speaks up. “You need to quit with making my decisions for me. You know what I need?” Keith scoffed. “Please, spare me the hero non-sense. Get your head out of your arse and off that high-horse you so made yourself comfortable on.” Hardened chocolate eyes stared head-on into wavering blue ones.
It felt as though Mick had been shot. This seemed to lodge him from his seeming stupor attitude. “Me? My high-horse? How can you say that when you don’t even know? You spend your time fucking nodding out, so it’s no wonder that I have to make the decisions.”
“Shut your bloody mouth if you’re going to spew bullocks out,” Keith spat. “Just because you’re the fucking singer doesn’t mean you can exert your control on everyone.” Keith began to let his hand drop. “Can’t other people have a say? No they can’t because you’re just on one big fucking power trip.”
Mick bit down on his tongue to keep a rather nasty comment from tumbling out his mouth. Mick stood fast in the front of Keith’s hurricane. Even if he could ignore Keith’s biting comments, it still tore into him. Mick is still uneasy but quickly keeps it covered.
“You cant really say I don’t let anyone speak,” Mick began off slowly. “Nobody is willing to come forward and help me with it; no one is willing to sit down in meetings and put in advise. It‘s me alone who had to start doing it. I’m the one that has to take care of tours, I’m the one who has to look after the finances, I’m the one who has schedule studio sessions, I’m the one who has to basically draw out all the fucking plans of the bands future. And where are you at?” Mick allowed himself to stop to gaze into the embittered stare Keith fixed him. “Fucking nodding out because of smack or late because you wanted to score. A fucking junkie who thinks more highly of his drugs then to put in some effort to his own bloody band.”
Keith is stunned that Mick said that. Never would he allow Mick to let him know that he was hurt by this. All of those points had resonated and echoed through his conscious thought. He knew there was truth behind those words. Just as he began to think about him, a part was infuriated. How dare Mick paint himself a saint and Keith the bad guy. Didn’t he put in the effort in studios? In live acts? Why was Mick supposed to be dictating his every more?
“Don’t try to be a fucking saint here, Michael.” Mick tensed when he heard Keith use his real name. “You know what? You’re not God. Stop trying to act like. You can’t just control everything that goes on around.” It was times to completely knock Mick down from the high spot that he had started to fancy,
“It’s just like Brian, ain’t it?”
Mick’s eyes narrowed, then they widened at who Keith was referencing. His eyes were livid slits and he set on fire with anger. Never did the singer think that Keith would allow himself to bring up that topic and Mick never thought that he would use it to insult his pride.
“You do remember, don’t you?” Keith taunted. “Or did you block it out already?”
“How did you--”
“Anita.” Keith stated simply. “She old me a while ago.”
That’s right. Anita had been Brian’s former girlfriend and Keith’s current one. The one that had extended her claws into them both with her destructive beauty. He wouldn’t be surprised if Brian had told Anita, but he had been surprised that she Keith. Even though he hated her guts, they had begun to bond in this hellish-like state in this villa. They were bonding over their mutual hate for one of the house guests here and Keith’s current new drug experimenting buddy: Gram Parsons.
It was strange to put it mildly. To have those memories unburied from where Mick had so meticulously buried them in hopes of never remembering. Something was pouring in his head. Regret? Anguish over how it ended? Helplessness? Whatever it was, it was enough to keep Mick from speaking out.
Keith finally decided to come back to Mick, his hands darting out to reach the older boy; Keith also made circular paths around Mick’s body, as though he was excavating this new-found territory. Fingers slowly assigned themselves to patches of Mick’s boy and drug themselves around those areas. An arm began to curl around Mick’s chest and bring him back, Keith’s chest connecting with the firm back of Mick. Mick’s shoulders were tense.
“I wonder Mick,” Keith said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Did you really think that this would stay out of the light? Sooner or later it was going to come out whether you liked it or not. Was it that bad that you felt the need to just forget it? Or was it so frightening that you couldn‘t handle the situation?”
With a languid grace, Keith encircled Mick’s waist from behind. The brunette just stood there, staring stonily into space.
It wasn’t that planned, his meeting with Brian. It was spontaneous, lovely, dangerous. It manifested form tensions and ambitions. That seedy little place of Edith Grove. The filth encrusted walls but yet it was filled with aspirations and the will to survive. That fevering situation that Mick and Brian had painted themselves into could no longer be avoided. Even though it had happened a few times, both had vowed to never speak of it again. Brian must have slipped in a moment of whatever it could have been. But like always, it did get out-- only to Anita but she probably could care less about what it was.
It left Mick exposed for some reason. How Brian had pulled a piece out of him like nothing before and he felt… exploited? In some way Brian revealed a weaker side of him. Both became somewhat spiteful towards each other, yet they were very nice with each other; it was like a love/hate thing. One night stands did become a bit common between the two, but that was only in the early days. It cut off around when Anita had entered the picture. Brian was left a changed man after meeting Anita and it wasn’t for the good.
Mick hated this. Keith was extracting a part of him that he though was buried and long gone. He was desperate to get this attention away from the past and turn it over somewhere else. Just as he began to think of a way to deflect this attention, an idea popped into his mind. His eyes narrowed and he straightened his back, a tense feeling overcoming his body.
“And you Keith? Are you sure that there is nothing wrong with you?”
Keith stopped his fingers from tracing their customary paths down his shirt. He pushed his face deeper into the slope of Mick’s neck and shoulder.
“Am I?” came a quiet whisper.
“You are. In that new buddy you have, Gram.”
Keith’s eyes darted upwards and he retreated his hand. Keith opened his mouth but could find no words to speak. He just stood there. He just couldn’t believe that Mick decided to bring in his friend.
“Leave Gram out of this,” he said defiantly. “He’s got nothing to do with this.”
Mick twisted around in Keith’s embrace, his nose touching with the guitarist’s. Blue eyes were narrowed. Keith unlocked his arms, opting to step back from his singer.
“You think you can just come in here and say that about me?” Mick replied with a tight response. “You’re all over him all the time. Always scheming with him.”
Mick knew it was childish to point at Gram, but honestly he hated the country boy. He probably had absolutely no reason to, but he couldn’t help but become jealous over how he was interacting with Keith. Because he was stealing Keith’s attention, Mick had become extremely possessive and he hated how Gram was doing it. He felt betrayed somehow by Keith. Everything that Mick did with Keith, the guitarist turned around and did them with Gram. They wrote together, played together, hung out together. Mick was tense and began to put up an angry front to Gram, hoping to discourage and push the boy away in hopes of gaining Keith back to himself.
Keith mashed his teeth together, biting his tongue to keep himself from jumping towards Mick and hurling a good right hook to that face of his. His palms were slick with sweat as the anger swelled inside. Why was Mick bringing up kin? Whether the reason was for good (he doubted that) or bad, he believed that Mick had no right to do that.
“Just stop right there. Just fucking stop.” Keith sucked in a sharp breath.
“Who the fuck do you think you are, huh? What right do you have to talk about someone who has done absolutely nothing to you? Why are you suddenly pinning on Gram?”
“You’re just assuming Keith,” Mick said simply, though there was a lesser force behind those words.
“No, you are.”
“There you go now Keith,” Mick said. “You’re defending something when there is no need to. You’re really with that boy so much. I wouldn’t be surprised if you already sucked him off.”
Nothing passed through them. Mick was slightly horrified that he had said that. Was he really that jealous of Gram? He deeply regretted it when he saw the murderous that melted onto Keith’s face. His eyes were wide, before narrowing into acidic gazes. Mick took in a preparing breath, waiting for when Keith would spew out that ugly speech that was deeply brewing in his mind.
“You.” Mick cringed slightly when he heard the glacial tone. “You idiot.”
Keith still had yet to move. He hated Mick. To everything and back, he hated that cunt that stood there in front of hi. Everything about him was so intolerable and unbearably trying. How he stood there in front of him like he was supposed to be the one who could act like God. Everything about Mick just makes Keith want to spit at him.
Something stirs inside of Mick. He doesn’t know but he now feels like he possibly made the biggest mistake in his life.
“You’re a fucking hypocrite.” Keith’s tone is calm, yet there is a sense of peril laced in there. “You stand there, judge me, tell me, command me and you won’t allow me the same rights? You advocate so much about how disgusting you find that. Well you know? You’re just a lonely, insecure child.”
All of Mick’s thoughts break when he heard that last piece. Lonely? Insecure? A fucking child? There can’t be any way that he is like that. Just no way. Keith was forcing his problems onto him and it made him quire upset over it. Why did Keith deem it necessary to put up Mick’s problems when Keith was blatantly running away from his own? The police. The taxes. The money. The drug casualties. Everything.
.
Mick lets out a chuckles. “It’s funny isn’t it?” Mick’s tone is completely humorless and devoid of sympathy. “You’re being so serious of me. Just always making a decision about me. Haven’t you taken a look at all of you’re problems yet? No you don’t. Just keep running away like you always do.”
“Stop spewing out some old bullshit,” Keith replies sharply.
“There you go again. Deflecting your own problems,” Mick’s voice steadily turns more hostile. “Really Keith, can you just cut the same old cowboy, outlaw image and just face up yourself?”
Keith opens his mouth and stops. Perhaps Mick wasn’t being that coy person he was used to seeing; the one that easily slid out of problems and never gave a full-on answer? A part of Keith wanted to submit to it. To actually drop this.
But… there was always that part of him that hated how Mick acted. The constant drugs, women (he sometimes knew of the men Mick would take), bullshit interviews; things that Mick should be truthful for.
“I think you’re scared Mick.” The tone is simply. There are no other emotions present in his voice. Nothing is there to indicate the previous attitude.
Mick is quiet. He doesn’t dare to breath a word. Mick shifts from foot to foot, an obvious sign that he is nervous.
“Tell me this Mick,” Keith begins to query. “Why are you so insecure?”
Cerulean eyes gaze in confusion. “What are you talking about?”
“You know.” A soft reply brushes softly.
Keith begins to move his feet, small steps that put Mick on edge for reasons unspecified. “I know who you are. It’s so different from what the public perceives. You don’t like I when people know the real you. Everyone knows Mick, but I know Michael. You don’t like it when people find you out under all of that perfected image. You’re scared. You fuck everyone over so you don’t have to worry about anything because you see yourself in the same situation.”
As overwrought aura had slid into place. Everything seems bloated to a point of explosion. The words sank into the singer, each word angrily tearing at his soul. His lungs feel as though they would overheat. Perhaps Keith was right. Keith pinned the truth on the donkey, complete bulls-eye. A voice chides in his head that Keith knows him to this point. Maybe it was himself that had changed the most instead of Keith.
Shaking his head, Keith ejects out more caustic words that were just ready to breach his lips and rids them from his mind. His eyes tell him that he’s probably done more damage then he’s intended to. He closely eyes the figure belonging to his singer; he waiting for Mick to have a reaction. He gets it but it wasn’t as he expected it to be.
A burned-out sigh escapes from Mick’s thick lips, his head tilting backwards to the ceiling. With unfocused eyes, Mick finally answers with, “Maybe you are right Keith.” It’s so soft that Keith has to strain his ears to catch these words. There is also something in that voice that Keith isn’t familiar with. Defeat?
Keith could understand how frightened one can get because of the problems that they faced. Keith might not admit it fully, but Mick shouldered so much of the band and nobody was willing to take any of it off of him. Keith spent a lot of the meetings nodding out on smack or simply not attending at all. He’s already missed quite a few now. Keith decides that he wants to end this confrontation before it turns out of hand and becomes something that not even both of them can settle.
“But you know Mick,” Keith says softly and allows himself to move towards the singer. Mick unhurriedly lowers his head to gaze at Keith in an enervated way. “You don’t have to do this. Stop all of the fake images and let people know how you feel. Don’t throw people away because of your insecurities. How is anyone supposed to trust you if you keep that up?”
Nothing was happening inside of Mick’s brain. Just a dead silence that was obliging Keith’s words access. Keith finally placed himself in front of Mick. He slid his fingers again across Mick’s pale h\cheek; it settled just under a lock of brown hair.
“What will it take to let it go?”
“I don’t know,” Mick says airily.
Keith then pressed his forehead onto Mick’s. They stood this way for a while. It wasn’t until Mick enveloped Keith’s waist with his arms and allowed the warmth of the other body to invade his senses. It had been a long time since they had fought like this. Luckily this time they hadn’t come to blows with each other. Mick was caught in his thoughts until a pair of chapped lips were roaming his neck.
“I’m sorry,” came Keith’s unexpected voice.
Mick blinked. “You’re--”
Keith snorted. “I don’t say this much to y’, but I am. I shouldn’t have brought those things up.”
“Neither should I.”
“But-- fucking hell. It’s just when I get so angry, I can’t help butt--”
Mick squeezed tighter on Keith’s lower body, effectively cutting off any sentence that was waiting to be let out of Keith’s throat. “Hey,” Mick said encouragingly, “we’re past that. Let’s act like civilized adults here. You’re sorry, I’m sorry; let’s just leave it at that.”
Keith let a smile grace his lips when he heard that Mick was okay with it. Mick was glad that he hadn’t pushed Keith away with his comments. The brunette wouldn’t know what to do with himself if Keith lefty. His spark in his life would have been gone. He relished this embrace. It wasn’t until a few moments later when he realized the presence of a hand slinking around his hips did he break off his thoughts.
“Even after all that fighting, you still want a shag?” Mick said in a hint of disbelief.
“Well, you got me in a mood and I want to get rid of that.” Keith pulled his head away from Mick’s neck and waggled his eyebrows at Mick. The older boy just laughed.
“Let’s take this upstairs, if you may--”
Mick couldn’t get the whole sentence out because Keith had suddenly connected his lips with Mick’s, Keith’s tongue demanding access and on instinct, Mick opened up. There was that bitter emotion and Mick could feel the ferocity of Keith’s mood in that one contact alone. Fingers darted out to caress each others sides, to carve a path down to their hips; they excavated anywhere they could seek out. Both males took pleasure in the others presence, and they showed this by tugging at the clothes they both were wearing.
“It would be better if we could rid these,” Keith murmured against Mick’s neck when he broke away, pulling on the shirt Mick wore.
“It would be better if we continue upstairs. It’s got a bed.”
They both unfolded from each others embrace. Mick grasped Keith’s hand and tugged him towards the stairs. Along the way, there were several detours: they spent time nearly shoving each other against the wall for a small but heavy make-out session, each not able to get enough of the other male. They were somehow graceful when stepping over forgotten pieces of furniture, passed-out people, clothes and other little things that so happened to litter the floor as though it were a battle filed.
Clothes were almost combatively torn off. Several grunts were made to tell the other to take it easy on the clothes, but either of them just forgot about them. Heated breath ghosted over flesh. Keith’s guitar-skilled fingers roamed over what he liked to call his ‘personal instrument’; it allowed him to fully exercise his skilled fingers, seeing if he really could make a guitar come to life. He practiced them out on his own canvas. Moans were pressing through the air and the room became aglow with their own body heat. Their rhythm was established and both came together for a secret dance that both had perfected.
The bed began to knock in repeated paces against the wall, signaling that dance had begun. Sheets became sweat drenched and crinkled. Fingers grasped at the linen, a handle that life was still going on. Mick’s legs were locked around Keith’s waist as Keith drove forwards, pushing himself deeper into that body that was so willing for him. Keith’s mouth was there, to collect every moan he was able to generate from Mick’s body. They soon melted together, both coming a high.
They would collapse with each other, both too spent to do anything else. Keith and Mick just embraced each other on that bed, the covers now tangled around their sinewy, moisture-ridden bodies.
“I love you,” came Keith’s sleep-ridden voice.
“And I love you too.”
--
Eyes jolted open to only cringe away from the light had so rudely invaded. Stoned eyes were half-open, staring blurrily at the surroundings. Palms went to shield the eyes from the light.
Anita languidly sat up. Stretching her muscles, she yawned and felt her joints crack. The window indicated that it just have been early. The room was warm. Anita then slowly pushed off the ground into a wobbly standing position.
Her mind was a little suppressed due to a night of drugs; those downers she took were still in her system from the previous night/morning/whatever it would be called. Long, cat-like fingers scratched fuzzily at hair that had fanned out messily around her head. Her mind developed the concept that there were some downers somewhere around here and began a search for them, most of the German-Italian woman’s efforts half-hearted.
The floors creaked with every sloppy move that she made across them. Anita had enough presence in mind to step over the fallen people on the ground. Gretchen, Gram’s wife, was lying on the couch and Gram was nowhere to be found. Anita didn’t care because she wasn’t concerned. She piled through the clothes that Gretchen had, not caring that she was invading the other woman’s privacy.
The stairs made groaning noises as Anita went up them. Green eyes were washed over with the after affects of the drugs. She took a look at the first room and her eyes went to the doorknob. She opened it and stared inside, scanning the dressers, nightstands and pretty much anything Anita could recognize.
Her eyes lit up when she saw Keith in the bed. Her foot tapped some type of fabric on the ground and she saw a shirt and some other clothes. Mick’s pajama bottom was right in the doorway. Anita then peered at the Keith’s foot sticking from under the covers along with a much lighter-skinned foot. Keith’s arms were enveloped around another and vice-versa. It looked like Mick, but the hair was scattered everywhere. After a moment, she decided that it was Mick. Anita stood there, her mind slow at processing and put it all together. She shrugged her shoulders and turned away
Anita turned on her heels and went down to the room she normally slept in. Eyes alight with the bottle she had been searching for, she downed them and lied in her bed. Before all thought had collapsed from it, Anita had quickly thought, “As long as Keith isn’t with another woman, I’m fine,” before everything went black again.