we scream in cathedrals
As it happens, I am not dead yet. Here are two Mick/Keith flavored drabbles to prove it.
300 words for equusregia, who requested a post-coital drabble a while back.
[along the twilight zone]
Very drunk, very tired, so it's a long time before Keith can open his eyes again. The world comes back to him in pieces:
The studio, dull with the lights down, an empty box, all its acoustics with nothing to do but echo each breath back to--
The wall against his back, and it's like ice--where is his shirt; where are they? Paris, right, but a studio can be anywhere and is nowhere, they're nowhere, and it's so fucking cold, he doesn't know--
Mick's mouth still slightly open against Keith's shoulder, teeth edged against his skin, too close, too wet, too close. He shoves Mick away as hard as he can--
Fingers catch at his wrist--"Fuck!"--and they both go over on the carpet, with the empty bottles and cigarette ashes, their knees hitting against each other--
The desire to hit him--
His pulse beats hot in the scratches on his forearms, in the fingerprint bruises on his thighs, and he remembers, fumbling, to zip his jeans. "Fuck you," Mick snarls, catching his breath. "Why d'you always have to be--"
To just beat the shit out of him and let that be the ending, to never have to hear him talk this way; Keith wants that more than almost anything--
Except maybe a fix--
And the band--
And all the pieces tumble into place: they're in Paris. It's nearly spring. There are the wall, the window and the console. Here is the floor. He's got an album to do, and hardly any junk in what's left of his veins. The long shadow of seven years to life waits on the horizon. Here is his best friend, lighting a smoke, dirty hands pale as stars in the cold dark room--
"--Forget it," says Keith, and begins to.
*
And 230-ish words for aworldinside, who likes the eighties and Edna St. Vincent Millay.
[cold in August]
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, 'There is no memory of him here!'
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.
- Edna St. Vincent Millay
The corridor backstage is clean enough, well-lit enough, routine in every way, except it's twisted and thrown Mick into freefall. A drop straight down the rabbit hole.
He presses a hand hard against the wall, for just a beat, before folding his arms. Fine. It was unexpected, that was all.
To open the dressing room door, and laugh--"The matron's checking beds, boys, hands above the covers!"--and have this music rear up to slash him ear to ear. Guitar. Drums. Loud. Keith's guitar. Pierre and Bernard looking up at him, shocked, smiling, guilty, between the speakers. Keith's guitar. Mick feels he must have heard the song before, and knows he hasn't, and he backs away and down the corridor without a word.
He didn't expect that. He certainly did not expect to hear his own voice come in on the record, on the harmony.
It's strange, like touring in Australia in August and finding out their winter's real. He takes a deep breath, lets it trickle out, to test what kind of lungs he's got tonight. The vertigo's passed, the floor's leveled, and he paces back toward his dressing room. He wonders if they're talking about him, or still listening. If it's still playing. If Keith's still--
Mick shakes his head. There is a show to do. There'll always be a show to do, somewhere, no matter whether the world's upside down.
*
Feedback adored.
In other news, you all should go to xmas_rocks and take the poll and sign up and pimp it to other people. Please, I beg of you? I want it to happen and it needs lots of people.
300 words for equusregia, who requested a post-coital drabble a while back.
[along the twilight zone]
Very drunk, very tired, so it's a long time before Keith can open his eyes again. The world comes back to him in pieces:
The studio, dull with the lights down, an empty box, all its acoustics with nothing to do but echo each breath back to--
The wall against his back, and it's like ice--where is his shirt; where are they? Paris, right, but a studio can be anywhere and is nowhere, they're nowhere, and it's so fucking cold, he doesn't know--
Mick's mouth still slightly open against Keith's shoulder, teeth edged against his skin, too close, too wet, too close. He shoves Mick away as hard as he can--
Fingers catch at his wrist--"Fuck!"--and they both go over on the carpet, with the empty bottles and cigarette ashes, their knees hitting against each other--
The desire to hit him--
His pulse beats hot in the scratches on his forearms, in the fingerprint bruises on his thighs, and he remembers, fumbling, to zip his jeans. "Fuck you," Mick snarls, catching his breath. "Why d'you always have to be--"
To just beat the shit out of him and let that be the ending, to never have to hear him talk this way; Keith wants that more than almost anything--
Except maybe a fix--
And the band--
And all the pieces tumble into place: they're in Paris. It's nearly spring. There are the wall, the window and the console. Here is the floor. He's got an album to do, and hardly any junk in what's left of his veins. The long shadow of seven years to life waits on the horizon. Here is his best friend, lighting a smoke, dirty hands pale as stars in the cold dark room--
"--Forget it," says Keith, and begins to.
*
And 230-ish words for aworldinside, who likes the eighties and Edna St. Vincent Millay.
[cold in August]
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, 'There is no memory of him here!'
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.
- Edna St. Vincent Millay
The corridor backstage is clean enough, well-lit enough, routine in every way, except it's twisted and thrown Mick into freefall. A drop straight down the rabbit hole.
He presses a hand hard against the wall, for just a beat, before folding his arms. Fine. It was unexpected, that was all.
To open the dressing room door, and laugh--"The matron's checking beds, boys, hands above the covers!"--and have this music rear up to slash him ear to ear. Guitar. Drums. Loud. Keith's guitar. Pierre and Bernard looking up at him, shocked, smiling, guilty, between the speakers. Keith's guitar. Mick feels he must have heard the song before, and knows he hasn't, and he backs away and down the corridor without a word.
He didn't expect that. He certainly did not expect to hear his own voice come in on the record, on the harmony.
It's strange, like touring in Australia in August and finding out their winter's real. He takes a deep breath, lets it trickle out, to test what kind of lungs he's got tonight. The vertigo's passed, the floor's leveled, and he paces back toward his dressing room. He wonders if they're talking about him, or still listening. If it's still playing. If Keith's still--
Mick shakes his head. There is a show to do. There'll always be a show to do, somewhere, no matter whether the world's upside down.
*
Feedback adored.
In other news, you all should go to xmas_rocks and take the poll and sign up and pimp it to other people. Please, I beg of you? I want it to happen and it needs lots of people.