Ten Drabbles, part I
Easing myself back into this bandom with drabbles, yay!
i. Children
Angus has never begrudged Cara her father’s time. The girl is hardly three years old, still stumbling around on toddler feet and spelling his name Unkel Anus which always makes Malcolm laugh for reasons she doesn’t really understand and which Angus is in no hurry to explain to her. She’s a beautiful little girl, silky dark hair like Malcolm’s and his wide brown eyes, although O’Linda tends to tie it back, whereas Malcolm prefers to leave it hanging in front of his eyes grumpily. He thinks it adds to his sex appeal, which Angus privately agrees to, but would never actually admit out loud to his brother. Nevertheless, he’s always just a teeny bit jealous when Malcolm’s arms leave his shoulders to wrap around his daughter.
ii. Freedom
When they were kids, Malcolm and Angus would run around their yard all day, challenging each other to football tournaments (which Malcolm would inevitably win, having the speed and skill in his nimble feet to play for Glasgow Rangers some day if he’d wanted to). There weren’t enough hours in the day to spend with each other, laughing and joking and jostling and Stop-being-such-a-fucking-pussy-and-eat-the-worm-Angus-ing, playing endless games of dares, until they were too tired to do anything but flop into bed and sleep, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow they could do it all again. But as adults they have responsibilities, to the band, to their wives, to their children, to each other; ties that before were as thin as smoke, and now are as heavy as chains.
iii. Risk
There was always a certain level of risk in fucking backstage. There was the risk of a roadie - or worse, a groupie - coming around the corner to discover Angus on his knees with Malcolm six inches deep in his throat, throwing his head back as he knotted his fingers in his younger brother’s hair and tried to thrust even deeper; there was the risk of Bon displaying those infuriating skills of observation that always led to embarrassing revelations about the rest of the band; there was the risk of Malcolm losing his nerve upon hearing footsteps and running away, pretending there was nothing other than the familial bond of blood between them, and that, Angus saw as the greatest risk of all.
iv. Theory
Bon had this theory, involving his mouth and various strategic places on his rhythm guitarist’s body. If he bit Malcolm on the cheek, the shorter man would sock him in the face and possibly cause several hundred dollars’ worth of dental work. If he bit him on the hand, Malcolm would quite possibly reach down his throat and claw out his larynx in retribution. But if he bit Malcolm on the chest, or the neck, or the thighs, Malcolm would roll over and beg for more, and Bon would grin like a shark and devour him whole.
v. Patience
Angus McKinnon Young has absolutely no patience whatsoever. He is something of a whirlwind in miniature, a five-foot-two version of the Tasmanian Devil in a schoolboy suit, wild curls whipping around his face as he dashes from room to room, picking up his guitar and his supply of Cadbury’s flakes and his soda, shouting a thousand things at a million decibels, always at full throttle. But when Malcolm takes his time, forces him to wait, Angus suddenly finds reserves of patience he didn’t know he has, and enjoys the slow revealing of miles of tanned Australian skin beneath his fingers, sighing Malcolm’s name to the empty room as he rolls over.
i. Children
Angus has never begrudged Cara her father’s time. The girl is hardly three years old, still stumbling around on toddler feet and spelling his name Unkel Anus which always makes Malcolm laugh for reasons she doesn’t really understand and which Angus is in no hurry to explain to her. She’s a beautiful little girl, silky dark hair like Malcolm’s and his wide brown eyes, although O’Linda tends to tie it back, whereas Malcolm prefers to leave it hanging in front of his eyes grumpily. He thinks it adds to his sex appeal, which Angus privately agrees to, but would never actually admit out loud to his brother. Nevertheless, he’s always just a teeny bit jealous when Malcolm’s arms leave his shoulders to wrap around his daughter.
ii. Freedom
When they were kids, Malcolm and Angus would run around their yard all day, challenging each other to football tournaments (which Malcolm would inevitably win, having the speed and skill in his nimble feet to play for Glasgow Rangers some day if he’d wanted to). There weren’t enough hours in the day to spend with each other, laughing and joking and jostling and Stop-being-such-a-fucking-pussy-and-eat-the-worm-Angus-ing, playing endless games of dares, until they were too tired to do anything but flop into bed and sleep, secure in the knowledge that tomorrow they could do it all again. But as adults they have responsibilities, to the band, to their wives, to their children, to each other; ties that before were as thin as smoke, and now are as heavy as chains.
iii. Risk
There was always a certain level of risk in fucking backstage. There was the risk of a roadie - or worse, a groupie - coming around the corner to discover Angus on his knees with Malcolm six inches deep in his throat, throwing his head back as he knotted his fingers in his younger brother’s hair and tried to thrust even deeper; there was the risk of Bon displaying those infuriating skills of observation that always led to embarrassing revelations about the rest of the band; there was the risk of Malcolm losing his nerve upon hearing footsteps and running away, pretending there was nothing other than the familial bond of blood between them, and that, Angus saw as the greatest risk of all.
iv. Theory
Bon had this theory, involving his mouth and various strategic places on his rhythm guitarist’s body. If he bit Malcolm on the cheek, the shorter man would sock him in the face and possibly cause several hundred dollars’ worth of dental work. If he bit him on the hand, Malcolm would quite possibly reach down his throat and claw out his larynx in retribution. But if he bit Malcolm on the chest, or the neck, or the thighs, Malcolm would roll over and beg for more, and Bon would grin like a shark and devour him whole.
v. Patience
Angus McKinnon Young has absolutely no patience whatsoever. He is something of a whirlwind in miniature, a five-foot-two version of the Tasmanian Devil in a schoolboy suit, wild curls whipping around his face as he dashes from room to room, picking up his guitar and his supply of Cadbury’s flakes and his soda, shouting a thousand things at a million decibels, always at full throttle. But when Malcolm takes his time, forces him to wait, Angus suddenly finds reserves of patience he didn’t know he has, and enjoys the slow revealing of miles of tanned Australian skin beneath his fingers, sighing Malcolm’s name to the empty room as he rolls over.