Just someing really short.
Title: Face Up To Me
Pairing: Keith/Mick
Rating: PG-13 (sorry, nothing sexual here this time)
Time Frame: Somewhere in the last half of '68.
Mick stood in the middle of his room. He stared out the window, watching as the wind tousled the tops of the tree’s with a gentle breeze. His fingers cradled his chin as it was propped up on his open palm. He exhaled a near tight-lipped breath as he fiddled around with his hair-- much longer then say the past few months. A light sound was in the background and the man didn’t bother to answer the requests that came in the form of knocks on his door. The singer was too busy in deliberating on certain things, rather a certain guitarist.
All month, Keith seemed to be ignoring him, getting upset at him, becoming chafe with him and all sorts of quaint behavior. One morning Mick had waltzed in with new lyrics he had strung together previously the night before. Keith just stared and scoffed at him and petulantly marched out. Mick was left very misinformed about why Keith had left in a spectacular show of anger. The older one was left clutching a granite-marked pad and staring at Keith’s discarded guitar.
All week had the guitarist spewed tense and ireful feelings towards the singer, effectively winding Mick up with everything that could be related to anger. He couldn’t get any fucking work done with it:
“Hey Keith, do you think that we could have a brief slide guitar in there--”
Keith grunted in annoyance. “Why don’t you add a fucking slide guitar in there yourself since you so kindly suggested,” he spoke, sarcasm saturating his words.
“What the hell was that about?”
‘If you’re not gonna add anything then shut the bloody hell up and get back to writing out your words.”
--
Mick was ready to blow his lungs up in all of the pent-up anger lashing around in the pit of his stomach. It was curling around his inside, searing through his flesh intensely. Just a swift cut to Keith’s face would help to dissolve some of his agitation.
Now they sat in the studio room, Keith hunched over his guitar, birthing a set of soft and lilting guitar notes, and Mick crouched in his seat with an acoustic cast off to his side. Like a woman’s stance, Mick was repeatedly crossing and unfolding his legs. His bony fingers twitched in vexation with slight anxiety. Blues eyes peered at the bent figure, his mind whirling and churning various situations from where he could take, each coming out with a variety of outcomes. Mick decided that he would take the blunt version of his plot to confront Keith.
“Don’t fucking talk to me.” The answer had rudely pushed into Mick before he could even draw out a word. His forehead creased in question and rage.
“What is all this about?” he inquired curiously. The stress of his anger was seeping through his pores, threatening to set him ignited with physically violent movements.
Keith didn’t answer as he slowly lifted himself from his position but remained seated. The air hung heavily, growing thick and brewing with unfamiliar feelings. Mick was oscillating in suppression and Keith was merely staying confident and stony. Locks of unwashed hair fell over Keith’s eyes, succeeding in creating a curtain of darkness around his face; it looked like his face had grown much more narrow.
“I’m such a fucking coward,” were the words that daintily breezed out of Keith’s lips. The words barely caressed his ears that Mick was sent reeling with a double-take. Agitation dissolved and the confusion filled his conscious.
“Er-- what now?” he tried to once more hear Keith out.
“Fucking coward that I’ve become,” Keith spat acidly to himself. “Here it’s been almost a full year since I’ve had it but I can’t even say it after all this time. God I’m so fucking pathetic."
Mick’s mind was circulating with confusion and he couldn’t react to these allegations that Keith was pouring out with rapid ease. “I don’t see how this is--”
“I fucking love you Mick,” Keith spoke out in a voice that could be taken as dreadful. “I’m in love with my fucking singer and best mate and I don’t even have the bravery to say it to you when I’m fucking sloshed.”
“What is this--” Mick tried but was cut off again.
“Let’s just go out and get shit-faced drunk so you can lie to me and let me bask in my temporary warmth. At least I’ll be blazed enough to not feel it.”
Mick still waited for Keith to finish.
“At least you can have enough balls to tell me drunk Jagger,” Keith snipped angrily. “At least give me that privilege.”
Mick finally dared to open his mouth, choosing his words in the sense that he hoped were wise. “Where is this all coming from? You mean you’ve never told me about it once?”
Keith watched Mick, his eyes trained on Mick’s figure. “I know how you are.”
“How do you know? All you’ve been doing is fucking guessing at what I’ll do; you’ve never once asked.”
Keith’s back straightened considerably. “You can’t face me like that. Never have you confronted the problems that are in front of you; it’s just like Brian,” the older boy tensed considerably in a firm wall, “always taking some type of leap in hopes of avoiding things. Just like you do. Fucking coward you are.”
Mick had just about enough of Keith’s accusations for one sitting. “And you’re some expert at how others are? I spy a hypocrite in you Keith. Never once did you think why I spent so much time giving you looks and touches on stage? Ever once did you think why I only write with you? Never have you considered that, huh?”
Keith’s lips were pressed in a thin line before it finally surrendered to a tired frown. He leaned back and allowed himself to look at Mick. “So that’s why you were doing that. I always had a curious thought but now it does make sense.”
Both stared at each other and did nothing. “So what does this make us now?” Mick inquired.
Keith shrugged his shoulders. “A couple? An item? You take a guess.”
“Well-- I guess were one then and I--”
“None of that sentimental shit or those flowers you like to send too much. It‘ll make it too obvious to everyone; plus, I‘ll run out of places to put that stuff,” Keith interjected.
“Alright.”
Pairing: Keith/Mick
Rating: PG-13 (sorry, nothing sexual here this time)
Time Frame: Somewhere in the last half of '68.
Mick stood in the middle of his room. He stared out the window, watching as the wind tousled the tops of the tree’s with a gentle breeze. His fingers cradled his chin as it was propped up on his open palm. He exhaled a near tight-lipped breath as he fiddled around with his hair-- much longer then say the past few months. A light sound was in the background and the man didn’t bother to answer the requests that came in the form of knocks on his door. The singer was too busy in deliberating on certain things, rather a certain guitarist.
All month, Keith seemed to be ignoring him, getting upset at him, becoming chafe with him and all sorts of quaint behavior. One morning Mick had waltzed in with new lyrics he had strung together previously the night before. Keith just stared and scoffed at him and petulantly marched out. Mick was left very misinformed about why Keith had left in a spectacular show of anger. The older one was left clutching a granite-marked pad and staring at Keith’s discarded guitar.
All week had the guitarist spewed tense and ireful feelings towards the singer, effectively winding Mick up with everything that could be related to anger. He couldn’t get any fucking work done with it:
“Hey Keith, do you think that we could have a brief slide guitar in there--”
Keith grunted in annoyance. “Why don’t you add a fucking slide guitar in there yourself since you so kindly suggested,” he spoke, sarcasm saturating his words.
“What the hell was that about?”
‘If you’re not gonna add anything then shut the bloody hell up and get back to writing out your words.”
--
Mick was ready to blow his lungs up in all of the pent-up anger lashing around in the pit of his stomach. It was curling around his inside, searing through his flesh intensely. Just a swift cut to Keith’s face would help to dissolve some of his agitation.
Now they sat in the studio room, Keith hunched over his guitar, birthing a set of soft and lilting guitar notes, and Mick crouched in his seat with an acoustic cast off to his side. Like a woman’s stance, Mick was repeatedly crossing and unfolding his legs. His bony fingers twitched in vexation with slight anxiety. Blues eyes peered at the bent figure, his mind whirling and churning various situations from where he could take, each coming out with a variety of outcomes. Mick decided that he would take the blunt version of his plot to confront Keith.
“Don’t fucking talk to me.” The answer had rudely pushed into Mick before he could even draw out a word. His forehead creased in question and rage.
“What is all this about?” he inquired curiously. The stress of his anger was seeping through his pores, threatening to set him ignited with physically violent movements.
Keith didn’t answer as he slowly lifted himself from his position but remained seated. The air hung heavily, growing thick and brewing with unfamiliar feelings. Mick was oscillating in suppression and Keith was merely staying confident and stony. Locks of unwashed hair fell over Keith’s eyes, succeeding in creating a curtain of darkness around his face; it looked like his face had grown much more narrow.
“I’m such a fucking coward,” were the words that daintily breezed out of Keith’s lips. The words barely caressed his ears that Mick was sent reeling with a double-take. Agitation dissolved and the confusion filled his conscious.
“Er-- what now?” he tried to once more hear Keith out.
“Fucking coward that I’ve become,” Keith spat acidly to himself. “Here it’s been almost a full year since I’ve had it but I can’t even say it after all this time. God I’m so fucking pathetic."
Mick’s mind was circulating with confusion and he couldn’t react to these allegations that Keith was pouring out with rapid ease. “I don’t see how this is--”
“I fucking love you Mick,” Keith spoke out in a voice that could be taken as dreadful. “I’m in love with my fucking singer and best mate and I don’t even have the bravery to say it to you when I’m fucking sloshed.”
“What is this--” Mick tried but was cut off again.
“Let’s just go out and get shit-faced drunk so you can lie to me and let me bask in my temporary warmth. At least I’ll be blazed enough to not feel it.”
Mick still waited for Keith to finish.
“At least you can have enough balls to tell me drunk Jagger,” Keith snipped angrily. “At least give me that privilege.”
Mick finally dared to open his mouth, choosing his words in the sense that he hoped were wise. “Where is this all coming from? You mean you’ve never told me about it once?”
Keith watched Mick, his eyes trained on Mick’s figure. “I know how you are.”
“How do you know? All you’ve been doing is fucking guessing at what I’ll do; you’ve never once asked.”
Keith’s back straightened considerably. “You can’t face me like that. Never have you confronted the problems that are in front of you; it’s just like Brian,” the older boy tensed considerably in a firm wall, “always taking some type of leap in hopes of avoiding things. Just like you do. Fucking coward you are.”
Mick had just about enough of Keith’s accusations for one sitting. “And you’re some expert at how others are? I spy a hypocrite in you Keith. Never once did you think why I spent so much time giving you looks and touches on stage? Ever once did you think why I only write with you? Never have you considered that, huh?”
Keith’s lips were pressed in a thin line before it finally surrendered to a tired frown. He leaned back and allowed himself to look at Mick. “So that’s why you were doing that. I always had a curious thought but now it does make sense.”
Both stared at each other and did nothing. “So what does this make us now?” Mick inquired.
Keith shrugged his shoulders. “A couple? An item? You take a guess.”
“Well-- I guess were one then and I--”
“None of that sentimental shit or those flowers you like to send too much. It‘ll make it too obvious to everyone; plus, I‘ll run out of places to put that stuff,” Keith interjected.
“Alright.”