it is the evening of the day
Still not dead!
title: Verse Chorus Verse
re: Mick/Keith, marginally
words: 200
note: Quick short thing for aworldinside's prompt: Mick and Keith learning to write songs together.
never happened: don't sue!
Everyone else is off to the pub and Mick closes the door behind them, locks it without really knowing why. He turns to watch Keith tuning up, cheek pressed to his fretboard, hair almost long enough now to hide his eyes.
The A-string squeals. Mick sighs. "You should ask Brian to do that for you; doesn't take him all sodding day."
"Fuck y'self." Keith's cigarette twitches in the corner of his mouth. "Or ask Brian to do it for you."
Mick retches loudly, theatrically. Keith interrupts the performance with a few experimental chords, clear and ringing and obviously *beginning* something. Mick thinks he might sense a melody--already? yes, already--and he almost leaps across the room to sit down with Keith. It feels like starting a relay race. Like they're getting away with a magic trick, doing something no one else on earth can do. Like torture, sometimes, and Mick has forgotten why he ever hesitated to try it.
Knee-to-knee, and quiet, and Keith looks up at last, smoke almost concealing a very small smile. "Are we right then?"
They're going to make thousands of pounds, Mick thinks; together they'll make Brian and Charlie and even Stu fucking dance.
"Yeah," he says. "Go--"
title: Verse Chorus Verse
re: Mick/Keith, marginally
words: 200
note: Quick short thing for aworldinside's prompt: Mick and Keith learning to write songs together.
never happened: don't sue!
Everyone else is off to the pub and Mick closes the door behind them, locks it without really knowing why. He turns to watch Keith tuning up, cheek pressed to his fretboard, hair almost long enough now to hide his eyes.
The A-string squeals. Mick sighs. "You should ask Brian to do that for you; doesn't take him all sodding day."
"Fuck y'self." Keith's cigarette twitches in the corner of his mouth. "Or ask Brian to do it for you."
Mick retches loudly, theatrically. Keith interrupts the performance with a few experimental chords, clear and ringing and obviously *beginning* something. Mick thinks he might sense a melody--already? yes, already--and he almost leaps across the room to sit down with Keith. It feels like starting a relay race. Like they're getting away with a magic trick, doing something no one else on earth can do. Like torture, sometimes, and Mick has forgotten why he ever hesitated to try it.
Knee-to-knee, and quiet, and Keith looks up at last, smoke almost concealing a very small smile. "Are we right then?"
They're going to make thousands of pounds, Mick thinks; together they'll make Brian and Charlie and even Stu fucking dance.
"Yeah," he says. "Go--"