Just a Nellcote story
Title: What’s So Special About Him?
Author: Oh hey now, that’s me Jessica
Pairings: Gram Parsons/Keith Richards/Mick Jagger, past Keith Richards/Brian Jones/Mick Jagger, Keith Richards/Mick Jagger, Keith Richards/Anita Pallenburg/Brian Jones, hinted Mick Jagger/Anita Pallenburg (so many pairings)
Rating: R
Summary:Beware of the of the envious green eyed monster
Warnings: Drugs, alcohol, slight angst, slight mentions of cross dressing, jealousy, love triangles, mentions of past character death, a little gay ivolved
Disclaimer: This DIDn’t happen, but it’s based off some of these events.
A/N: I’m not even gonna bother with this.
This is about 5626 words, so this took a while
“What is it about him that makes him so special?”
This thought ran through Mick’s head. He stood in front of a mirror. It was as though he was sizing himself up. He gazed into the mirror with a judgmental stare. His gaze traveled up and down his mirror image. His ocean blue eyes surveyed anything.
“What is it?”
Mick stood in front of the mirror. He shifted from one foot to another, the warm floor sticking to the bottom of his feet. His traveled up and down his own body, as if to feel his own competition.
He was like Gram in every way. Mick was skinny, possibly borderline anorexic. He had long, brown, wavy hair, just like Gram. But it seemed as though Keith tended to Gram more. He wouldn’t particularly say he was jealous, more as made that he was moving in on Mick’s own territory.
He looked at the door momentarily. The mahogany door was leaking light through its cracks. The heat wasn’t as strong as it was in the day, but it did feel less choking. The sticky warm marble floor continued to be stuck to his feet as he shifted back to the mirror.
What did that country speaking git have that he didn’t have? Mick was quite unhappy about this. He felt like Gram was moving in. It seemed as though Keith and Gram quipped behind him. They formed a pack-like trust. They hung out together, feeding off each other. They both had joked behind Mick’s back, whether it was positive or negative.
“Look! Her majesty has arrived! Quick, hide the drugs!” Gram would call out in a mock alarm, still laughing. Keith would laugh as he tried to keep his vodka in his hand.
A crash was heard downstairs. His eyes looked up and down the door, waiting for someone to come crashing through the door when hurricanes would hit.
“Dammnit Keith,” Keith’s girlfriend had yelled,” why are you always breaking thing!? Those are expensive!”
Low, almost inaudible - to Mick’s ears - murmurs of apologies were heard. Mick’s face curled into a sneer at that voice. He hadn’t really like Anita, even since she had been dating Brian, and eventually left him for Keith. Mick had a brief tiff with her on the freezing set of “Performance”. Even if they both deny, only they would know what happened.
Although both shared a mutual hate for Gram - they had sort of banded together - he still wasn’t very fond of her.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to go down there. He was hungry, but didn’t feel like hearing the latest jokes from Keith and Gram. Their little quips and jokes were quite irritating. He swiveled back to the mirror he still stood in front of.
He did have something that Keith did want, and will never get. He had discovered that Keith and a small crush on Brian. He spent a lot of time with him that it soon had turned into a like, even if Brian was cynical and a perfectionist, he was very gentle and likeable.
Keith had made small gestures to Brian. He would look a little longer, linger his touches, and so forth. Mick was already part of Brian’s attention. Brian had become fascinated with Mick, and often would focus on him more. One night, Brian had taken it further and had seduced Mick into bed with him. Even if Brian had made Mick feel incredibly good, he sort of resented it. He would later look back lovingly and a little mad. Sometimes he couldn’t believe that Brian made him fall for him so easily.
Keith would later find out through Anita. From her, Brian had told him that it did happen between him and Mick. . He had been surprised, even a little jealous. Brian chose Mick over him. Even if Mick had been his best buddy since ‘60, - actually becoming friend when they were 5 back in ’48 - there were some things that he just didn’t want to share. Mick had caught Brian’s attention, and Keith didn’t.
Mick would find out about this like. He would taunt Keith about it. Keith would just narrow his eyes, visibly jealous, his fingers twitching.
“Want to get pissed and have me put on a blond wig? At least you wouldn’t have to know it’s not Brian.”
Keith would mutter how fucking childish and that he was full of himself. He would nearly stomp off. When Brian was found dead in his pool on July 3rd, 1969, Keith knew he would never be able to pursue anything with Brian. Mick would use it to his advantage. When they would argue, he would bring it up.
“You’ve never felt what it’s like when he plays you like an instrument. Oh wait, you won’t Keith.”
Keith would nearly just want to pound Mick’s face in, but knew he was messing with him, to get him angry.
He was walking towards the door, his feet sticking only seconds to the floor, making mall suction cup sounds. His pale hand had reached for the door knob. He opened it, greeted immediately by the hot moist air. The stair creaked in his ears as he descended them. Coming around the corner, his eyes recognized Keith and Gram. They were in the kitchen. For a brief moment, his eyes scanned the counter-tops.
Many things littered the wasteland-like counter-top. The marble could barely be seen due to the clutter: vodka bottles, syringes, traces of coke that were unfinished, unwashed plates, guitar picks, glasses, strings, and other assorted items. The sinks were filled with dirty water.
Cans of untouched peas were cast into lonely piles. The French chefs were baffled and confused as to why Keith had refused to even eat canned peas, and demanded fresh picked ones.
Random hangers-on had been lying around, scattered throughout the house, like fallen toy soldiers on a field. Most were Keith’s junkie buddies, people he took smack with, or some other drugs. Many times would they try to persuade Mick into joining them. Anita and Keith would, sometimes, try to convince Mick to join them. He would deny them, sometimes with a sneer. It had brought up a certain situation.
-
It was very late - actually very early in the morning, it’s just that the sun hadn’t risen yet. There was a party going on, much smaller than the one that a few hours ago, but still continued into the early hours of the morning. Random people were passing out, thunking on the floor like a large rock into a puddle. Random people fell against the wall, passed out, echoing into his room.
Random passer byers would scrape against his door. What Mick couldn’t believe is that they hadn’t even thought about using the door knob, it was actually unlocked, which reminded him that he should have it locked. He threw the covers off, to pile on the floor at the bottom of the bed.
His feet slid across the plush, but grimy carpet. It had filtered through his toes, leaving a slight icky feeling. His feet moved over random objects, fabrics and clothes.
He clicked the lock, making the audible sound declaring that it couldn’t be opened from the outside. He then shuffled back into the bed, picking up the cast aside blanket, and pulling them up to cover his rail thin form. He grunted in response to the shuffling feet passing by and raping their knuckles against his door. The sounds kept him away from sleeping.
A clock sat high on the wall. It’s black frame contrasting from the wall. It looked as though it was ready to stop on defiance, its own command. Mick would find himself many times glaring at it, hoping to scare it into speeding up time so he wouldn’t have to hear junkies pass by his room
“There’re worse than those mother fucking groupies that follow us around,” he though bitterly.
He would lie there, as still as corpse. He would silently wish that they would leave and stop mooching off of them. He pulled the material closer to his body, curling tighter into a ball, wishing it would all be over
-
He walked pass them. Both were laughing at something Mick didn’t feel like sticking around to find out, so he had quickly done what he had came to do. A bottle had fallen, its sound thumping on the floor briefly held his attention. Gram’s country soaked voice filtered into the room with “Stop being so clumsy Keith!” Keith had seen Mick, and a broad grin spread onto his face.
“Her majesties is going back to her palace,” Keith had joked to Gram, “back to powder her nose!”
Keith and Gram doubled over in laughter. Mick just left in silence, not even sparing a glance at the two as laughter spilled from their mouths. He had a cup of liquid and some food and carried on back up the stairs, stepping over passed out junkies on the floor, not even sparing a glance
________
He was lightly strumming. Keith had looked at the table in front of him. He had started to tally up what he had done in the last 24 hours.
Several lines of coke, bottle of alcohol, a hand full of Tunials, Quaaludes, Xanax, a few joints, and a mystery drug that had already worn off after he took it. He wasn’t counting the last few days of what he had done. But for once in his life, he sat in utter complete silence. Usually there was some song or tune frolicking in his mind. Oddly, he was enjoying the rare silence. His demons seemed to scamper away for tonight, or this morning, whichever came first.
He was strumming absently. Plucking random chords in a free like jam. He had gone from blues jamming to country like jams. He was slightly studying the basements walls and the environment around him. There swastikas lining some of the vents, a small stack of amps - they were way out of tune due to the blistering heat - some guitars, strings, and other various items.
His supplies started to run low. He hadn’t seen Spanish Tony or heard from him, nor did he think of calling him up. He wasn’t sure if he was thankful or pissed off.
His eyes fell on a lonely abandoned can of peas. Almost 30 some years after, these fuckers were still torturing him. They still messed with him. He had refused to eat those damned canned peas because of them. Those damn Nazi’s wouldn’t allow him to rest. He knew it confused the chef’s, but they still catered to his whims.
His hand drifted to his pockets. He searched them, but came up empty. He sat the guitar down gently and fished through his pockets. He made sure he wouldn’t knock down the guitar; he was like a mother to it. His eyes briefly flicked up to the clock, reading almost 5 in the morning. The unknown thing he took was already burning itself out of his system.
He looked up at the staircase, then to the chair that Gram had been sitting in. The basement was hot, not like earlier that day, but he had resorted to wearing his boots and a pair of grungy jeans. The boots clicked on the floor as he ascended up the stairs, creaking with every step.
He pondered what he should do. Bitchanca - his selected name for Mick’s wife, Bianca - wasn’t there, so he didn’t have to worry about her presence. She decided to go visit her parents. She didn’t want to deal with their rock star like antics.
Little Mick wasn’t up, neither was Bill. Charlie would shut the door in his face if he came up there to harass him. Cats had randomly run across the floor. A lot of Keith’s cats had been everywhere, skittering across the floor, making small noises.
He checked for his treasured white powder. His room was empty, the guest room, and the kitchen, everywhere. His mind was still a little to fizzled to remember where his beloved white powder was. The thought of calling Spanish Tony did cross him, but he didn’t feel like haring his annoying as fuck voice. Anita didn’t have any supplies most of the day, so he went off somewhere else.
He came to Mick’s room. It would be a little rude to wake someone when they are sleeping, to bad that he didn’t care. He pushed open the door, the pale moonlight assaulting his eyes. It flooded the room through the blinds and things had cast shadows as an act of defiance.
Mick was sleeping, instead of wearing only underwear and sleeping spread eagle, he had on a light t-shirt and underwear. His wavy brown hair was scattered across the pillow. His china doll skin seemed almost ethereal, as though he were a forest sprite. It seemed translucent, like he would fade away.
As he searched his room, he was becoming more unhappy by the moment.
“Where the hell can I just get some fucking coke around here?” he thought angrily.
He glanced back at Mick’s prone form. His eyes scanned up and down his body, silently admiring his features. It seemed as though his feminine features were showing more than his masculine features. The curves were brought out by his current position on the bed.
His attention started to shift, and suddenly any thought of the coke had left him.
-
His eyes twitched. He curled a little and shifted. The bed had sagged under new weight, and he suspected it was one of those cats, that Keith owned, had jumped onto the bed, so he paid them no mind. It wasn’t until a pair of legs straddled his own and a pair of chapped lips pressed against his lips.
Mick tried to keep his eyes shut but Keith kept him from that by roaming his hands around his thin flat stomach. His eyes cracked open slowly to see dark hair.
Keith’s slightly greasy hair fell forward and tickled his neck and forehead. Hands traced the contours of his stomach. He planted small kisses on his cheek all the way down to the slope of his neck, where he kept his face there, the slight growth on Keith’s face scratching his own clean and shaven face.
He put his hands around Keith’s back and rubbed it sympathetically, as if motherly.
“It’s too fucking early for this Keith,” Mick said tiredly,”come back at a fucking descent hour.”
With that, Mick rolled over, sending Keith crashing off him and to the floor. His brown eyes looked up at Mick’s prone form. His back was faced towards him. He sat up on his backside and gazed up at him. His eyes narrowed a bit and demanded something.
“Did you take the rest of my coke, you fucking cunt?”
“How the fuck am I supposed to know with what you do with your shit? It’s yours; go bother someone else about it.” Mick then promptly went back to sleep, not caring for the rest of the conversation.
Keith grunted as he sat back up to his feet. He pulled up his pants a little more. Letting out a puff of air, he reached for the pack of cigarette’s sitting on the nightstand. The ashtray was lined with used buds, some lined with lipstick either from Anita or Mick.
With a clink of a lighter, he let the soothing feel of nicotine filter through his body. Forgetting about his powdered friend, he let it dangle loosely and walked out of the room, planning on coming back to Mick to finish what he started a few moments ago. He went back to his room, too lazy to go back to the basement and to strum out a few more chords. He changed his unwashed jeans into something a bit shorter.
Traces of the sun rising sowed midnight blue dusting into a light blue, singes of yellow were just over the horizon. He saw a half empty bottle of scotch but didn’t feel like taking a drink, which was unusual. He snubbed out the cigarette in the tray, s picture of Buddy Holly in the bottom.
He decided to sleep off any remaining drugs in his system. Maybe he’ll laugh with Gram, prod at Mick, or help him write some new songs. He wasn’t sure, so he just decided to sleep off until he felt like getting up.
___________
It was early afternoon, probably almost 12pm. The heat had returned in almost full force. It seeped into the walls and filled into every crack and crevice the building had to offer. Clothes were abandoned on the floor, the material too warm to wear.
Keith came shambling down stairs, still rubbing the sand-mans sand out of his eyes. His fingers scratched at the morning growth on his face. His sleep lidded eyes looked out at his environment. His face scrunched up at a can of abandoned peas. There were people, not lot of them like last night, still strung out on the floor. His eyes fell upon the back of Gram, who was moving around the cluttered kitchen, near burnt out cigarette hanging loosely in his mouth.
Grams elbow hit a bottle, and in turn, hit another bottle, which had fallen to the floor. He made a sound and picked up the bottle.
“Hey Keith.” Gram said as he turned around and spotted Keith standing in the kitchens entrance.
Keith had grinned at him, giving him a hello sign. He had joined Gram in raiding the fridge. Not long after that, bit had ended up in the basement, pouring out melodies and notes. It was like a jam, but very loose. As they descended the stairs, both were chatting as to what they were going to be doing.
-
It wasn’t very late; Keith had tried to give a guess as to what the time it would be. The clock read around to be 4. People had passed through the basement and out. Mick happened to be the permanent visitor. He had come in about maybe 1 or 2 hours after Gram and Keith had entered. He had picked up a guitar and played along with Keith. Gram had set down his guitar and listened to what Mick and Keith had started to give out. He let the notes soothe his ears and let the music slide through his being. His feet tapped to the slow, but hypnotic beat.
A few hours into the jam, Gram and Keith were talking. Mick was still playing notes, but his attention was slowly being diverted. He was still playing, but kept sneaking glances at Gram and Keith talking to each other.
The walls were tinted because of the low light in the room. The left over smell of weed and the stale smell of vomit was clinging to the air. It was a bit cleaner where they were, the random items that usually littered the floor not there right now.
His fingers flexed on the guitar neck. Mick still watched, his glances becoming longer. The same question from earlier had popped up into his head. His eyes had slightly narrowed. His fingers steadily grew tighter on his guitar neck. He felt hot jealousy shoot through his body when Gram had slowly dragged his hand across Keith’s back, up to his shoulder where his hand was now resting. Mick had had enough of watching them together, and he got up. He set the guitar down and walked right out of the basement.
Grams eyes were on Mick’s back, but Mick paid him no mind. He watched him move and soon saw that Mick had jealousy in his movement.
Mick stood outside of the entrance of the basement. He slid a cigarette into his mouth. He would later stub it out harder than necessary. Mick really would like it if Gram would just disappear for a while and never come back. He pushed of the wall and headed out to the deck that was open. He sat down on one of the chairs, slowly taking puffs off of his cigarette, the nicotine addled smoke filling his lungs.
Was it over-protectiveness that caused his to shelter Keith from other people? Was it his own selfishness to have Keith all to himself? Or was it the bubbling jealousy that he felt for Gram? The fact that Keith was paying attention to someone else other than him really didn’t help his situation. Mick looked out at the scenery. The heat had calmed down, but still stuck to everything. It wasn’t sunset just yet, but the sun was beginning to seep behind the horizon. His feet tapped he ground, a soundless tune in his head.
______
Keith sat near his bed. His back was bear and he had on the same pair of jeans for the past few days. His knees were propped up and an acoustic was in his hands. Whenever he was alone, he was playing his guitar or he was doing whatever drug he was favoring. His calloused fingers moved over the sinewy strings and along the neck, allowing notes to freely flow.
He would sometimes ponder things. Being alone ends up allowing a person to think, or mull over what was happening. His thoughts would range from childhood memories, his idols, if the police were trying to follow him around, whether or not he wanted Spanish Tony to come or not - he was low, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to even see that annoying as fuck person. He sometimes got lost in his thoughts. The naturally boundless energy he always possessed wasn’t thrumming through his body at the moment.
His eyes had unconsciously risen to his bed. The twisted covers lay in heaps. It hadn’t been made in many days. His eyes had unconsciously narrowed. His jaundiced eyes moved over the fabric. His thoughts had brought up a situation that happened a long - well, not so much to Keith - while ago. He did remember it like yesterday. Anita ended up letting it slip, but she didn’t really care if she did. It was then forever burned into his brain, whether he liked it or not. Familiar feelings ended up returning.
-
Anita was lying beside him. They were in some hotel and the room was littered with their things. Keith wasn’t sure what time it was. The blinds had blocked some of the dull warm sunlight from filtering in. The room was given a reddish hue glow.
Anita’s hair looked lighter, as if it were given a pearly blond glow. She was snuggled up to him, tracing small circles and patterns on his flat abdomen. Her blond hair, now shoulder length, was tickling his stomach and chest. Keith was absently running his fingers through her hair, admiring how soft each strand felt as it moved across his palm.
She would sometimes run her hand through his lion’s mane of tresses and tug on it. His hair was getting longer, it was almost shoulder length. She giggled a bit. Keith had wondered how Brian could hit this woman, but she ended up giving him just as good back. They would be in love, but were in a constant sparring match, trying to out do each other.
He smiled down at how, barring his own misaligned teeth in a toothy smile. She was looking at him. She was lying on his stomach, her fingers slowly tracing her patterns on his stomach.
“Hey Keef,” she piped up in her thickly accented voice.
“Yeah babe?”
“Are you and Brian still mates?” Her voice took on a quirky like quality.
“Yeah,” he answered, not really thinking about it.
“Even if Brian and Mick were fucking?” she asked, still with a steady voice.
His toothy smile had faded and his hand had stopped moving once the sentence settled into his head. Did… she just say…
“They… were wot?”
“Mm,” she gave a hum of acknowledgement, “they slept together, probably several times knowing them.” Anita had leaned off of him and grabbed a cigarette. She lay back down on his stomach. Her fingers lightly scratched his stomach.
What was Anita trying to say? Why was he just figuring this out? Why hadn’t Brian or Mick tell him? Bastards! He expected Mick to tell him everything! They were best friends! Surely they could tell each other anything, even that. He was fucking cheating on hi-… huh? Hold on, back up.
Cheating? How was Mick supposed to be cheating on him? They weren’t an object nor was there any type of relationship between, if you count the occasional sex between the two when there wasn‘t a groupie to take of them, then maybe you could count that. Mick hadn’t technically belonged to him, or vice versa. It was just for the sole reason of relieving each other.
Besides, that could have been the media. It wasn’t the first time they had made outrages accusations about them. Some had completely focused on what Mick’s sexuality was, questioning just what was he. How they would try to find anything on him.
Who was he kidding, Mick was made to take the brunt of things. He was the singer; so naturally, they get more of the blame. Mick was like the escape goat for their troubles, so it was easier to blame him. Mick was like his punching bag.
Something was welling up in Keith. It was a weird emotion, but was familiar. It was like Cupid shot rejection and jealousy into his heart. He pondered. Just how did Brian choose Mick over him when he could have a lot more in common with Brian than Mick did? How come?
Jealousy was pouring itself in faster than he could down a shot of brandy. His hand dropped on the bed and stopped messaging Anita’s hair. Anita had already stubbed out her cigarette and was working on her second one. Keith looked over at her.
“I know because Brian has told me so himself. More than one occasion.” her voice filtered into his ears. It was as though she was commenting off handedly.
-
That was only a few years ago. It was maybe a year before Brian died in his swimming pool. He still remembered what Anita told him as if it were a few hours ago. He didn’t approach Brian about it, his pride and jealousy didn’t allow him to even bring up or even hint at the subject. Nor did he press the matter with Mick. Even if he and Mick were fornicating with each other, he wouldn’t let it slip. Even when woman weren’t around, he seemingly turned to Mick, but not Brian.
When he did come around to asking Brian, it was too late. He was always putting it off or deciding he would do it later. Mick ended up finding out about it, maybe because Anita let it slip or something. But he had found out. If a fight ensured between the two, Mick brought it up. It took everything not to go over and brutally remodel Mick’s face. He would just nearly loose it.
“So, do I need to put on a blond wig and dance for you? Would you like that?” Mick would say in a sarcastic voice.
Keith would purse his lips together, fists clenching and unclenching. Even remembering that was enough to make his blood boil. His eyes had burned across the bed he sat across from. His thoughts were spilling into his head. His mind focused on the bed.
The bed that Mick and Brian waltzed in, creating their own dance.
The blankets that covered their sinewy bodies, providing the only clothing.
The mattress that supported them, allowing them to use it as a foundation.
The pillows. How Mick would press his head into when Brian conducted, or even vice versa.
He glared at it, hating how it reminded him of their dance. The entire thought had taken him out of his own created tranquility. It caused him to become frustrated and unnerved. He also took note that he was squeezing and gripping the guitar neck hard. His fingers were strumming harder than he was before. He would snap a string if he didn’t let up. He sat down the guitar gently.
He ventured out of his room.
-
He sat on a mountain of plush pillows. Mick had sort of confiscated pillows randomly throughout the house. They found their way into a spread out pile on the floor. The soft pillows, albeit a little dirty, were laid across random spots on his rooms floor. Mick sat perched upon them, like an eagle in its nest. With a notepad and pen in his hands, Mick was scribbling down and crossing out lyrics.
He was writing down words that came to him, occasionally singing out a tune he thought would work well with. He lifted his head up ever now and then to hear the cats that roamed around scratching at his door. He would get up and open the door for them, but they couldn’t decide if thy wanted to lounge in his room or roam around.
He would regard them with an annoyed stare and would close the door, muttering how Keith needed to keep those cats away. He would hear them skittering across the floor, making small noises, occasionally thumping across the floor.
He was stuck on a lyric, and he was very annoyed and couldn’t go on. He tapped the pen on his chin as he stared at the pad.
Before he could cross out the next line, the door swung open, and it slammed against the wall with a whoosh of air. As he looked up, a skeletal figure had pushed him back into the plush pillows. He grunted as the figure straddled his own rail thin legs. The pen and pad had dropped and became lonely abandoned utensils.
“Mmph,” Mick had said as Keith started kissing all over his face, his calloused fingers inching their way under his thin shirt and up his thin body.
Clothes were cast aside and into lonely pools of fabric. Kisses turned into long throws of passion.
-
Mick was exhausted and spent. His sweat slick hair clung to his shoulders, neck and forehead. His shoulders and back were pressed into the plush pillows. He looked over at his clothes and tiredly reached out for them.
Keith was squeezing back into his grungy jeans. His spine had poked through his back as he bent and strained some to get them back on. His skeletal frame had crawled back onto Mick. Keith’s boundless energy was now coursing. Mick just sighed and encircled Keith with his arms. If this was going to be like one of those nights that he Keith had, he might as well not even bother with his clothes.
______
Gram sat in the kitchen, a chair pulled to the side. The late morning sun high in the sky. The warm sunlight had padded its way into the kitchen, heating up the objects that it hit. A cup of coffee in his hand, and a half burnt out cigarette in the other.
He stared into the other room, watching the inhabitants. His attention happened to fall upon Keith and Mick, who were playing out melodies and writing lyrics. When Keith would play, Mick would scribble down, and sometimes cross out, some lines that contained lyrics. They weren’t in the basement for once.
He sipped some of his coffee. His eyes mostly studying at what they were doing. His eyes would mostly drift off to what Keith was doing, then occasionally flicking off to Mick.
His cigarette was dangling loosely in his mouth. Familiar feelings were lingering in his chest.
The more he was around Keith, the more he liked him. He couldn’t help it. Keith was starting to occupy more of his thoughts lately than anything else. He watched what Keith would do, and he would become more interested. Sometimes he would stare a little too long. He would have to stop before Mick would catch him. He did like Keith, and he was ready to chase after him, but there was something that prohibited him. Gram took another sip.
Mick Jagger. .
Keith’s songwriting buddy and friend of 10+ years.
It was that Mick - Gram replaced the coffee with the cigarette - kept him away Jagger was very unhappy about him and Keith were hanging out. When they would interact, Mick would watch in some form of way. Gram would act like he didn’t know, that it didn’t affect him, but he secretly knew about it. He saw how Mick would make small physical signs that he was irritated, and mutter to himself.
It drove Mick to jealousy to see that Keith was favoring another person over him Gram just happened to be the one. Gram felt a little smug that Keith was liking someone other than Mick. Even though he was constantly with Gram, he couldn’t stop Keith from coming back to Mick.
He knew a little of their relationship, he had some suspicions that they were a little more than band mates. Keith would wonder back to Mick, for whatever reason it was. If Gram tried his hardest to keep Keith, he would always go back to Mick.
He noticed some of their caresses, their lingering touches and glances. Even to when Keith would leave Mick’s room with disheveled clothes, or vice versa, sometimes together. Gram just couldn’t help it, the man was fine.
He lit up another cigarette.
Am I like, the only one who wants some slash fiction on them?
Author: Oh hey now, that’s me Jessica
Pairings: Gram Parsons/Keith Richards/Mick Jagger, past Keith Richards/Brian Jones/Mick Jagger, Keith Richards/Mick Jagger, Keith Richards/Anita Pallenburg/Brian Jones, hinted Mick Jagger/Anita Pallenburg (so many pairings)
Rating: R
Summary:Beware of the of the envious green eyed monster
Warnings: Drugs, alcohol, slight angst, slight mentions of cross dressing, jealousy, love triangles, mentions of past character death, a little gay ivolved
Disclaimer: This DIDn’t happen, but it’s based off some of these events.
A/N: I’m not even gonna bother with this.
This is about 5626 words, so this took a while
“What is it about him that makes him so special?”
This thought ran through Mick’s head. He stood in front of a mirror. It was as though he was sizing himself up. He gazed into the mirror with a judgmental stare. His gaze traveled up and down his mirror image. His ocean blue eyes surveyed anything.
“What is it?”
Mick stood in front of the mirror. He shifted from one foot to another, the warm floor sticking to the bottom of his feet. His traveled up and down his own body, as if to feel his own competition.
He was like Gram in every way. Mick was skinny, possibly borderline anorexic. He had long, brown, wavy hair, just like Gram. But it seemed as though Keith tended to Gram more. He wouldn’t particularly say he was jealous, more as made that he was moving in on Mick’s own territory.
He looked at the door momentarily. The mahogany door was leaking light through its cracks. The heat wasn’t as strong as it was in the day, but it did feel less choking. The sticky warm marble floor continued to be stuck to his feet as he shifted back to the mirror.
What did that country speaking git have that he didn’t have? Mick was quite unhappy about this. He felt like Gram was moving in. It seemed as though Keith and Gram quipped behind him. They formed a pack-like trust. They hung out together, feeding off each other. They both had joked behind Mick’s back, whether it was positive or negative.
“Look! Her majesty has arrived! Quick, hide the drugs!” Gram would call out in a mock alarm, still laughing. Keith would laugh as he tried to keep his vodka in his hand.
A crash was heard downstairs. His eyes looked up and down the door, waiting for someone to come crashing through the door when hurricanes would hit.
“Dammnit Keith,” Keith’s girlfriend had yelled,” why are you always breaking thing!? Those are expensive!”
Low, almost inaudible - to Mick’s ears - murmurs of apologies were heard. Mick’s face curled into a sneer at that voice. He hadn’t really like Anita, even since she had been dating Brian, and eventually left him for Keith. Mick had a brief tiff with her on the freezing set of “Performance”. Even if they both deny, only they would know what happened.
Although both shared a mutual hate for Gram - they had sort of banded together - he still wasn’t very fond of her.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to go down there. He was hungry, but didn’t feel like hearing the latest jokes from Keith and Gram. Their little quips and jokes were quite irritating. He swiveled back to the mirror he still stood in front of.
He did have something that Keith did want, and will never get. He had discovered that Keith and a small crush on Brian. He spent a lot of time with him that it soon had turned into a like, even if Brian was cynical and a perfectionist, he was very gentle and likeable.
Keith had made small gestures to Brian. He would look a little longer, linger his touches, and so forth. Mick was already part of Brian’s attention. Brian had become fascinated with Mick, and often would focus on him more. One night, Brian had taken it further and had seduced Mick into bed with him. Even if Brian had made Mick feel incredibly good, he sort of resented it. He would later look back lovingly and a little mad. Sometimes he couldn’t believe that Brian made him fall for him so easily.
Keith would later find out through Anita. From her, Brian had told him that it did happen between him and Mick. . He had been surprised, even a little jealous. Brian chose Mick over him. Even if Mick had been his best buddy since ‘60, - actually becoming friend when they were 5 back in ’48 - there were some things that he just didn’t want to share. Mick had caught Brian’s attention, and Keith didn’t.
Mick would find out about this like. He would taunt Keith about it. Keith would just narrow his eyes, visibly jealous, his fingers twitching.
“Want to get pissed and have me put on a blond wig? At least you wouldn’t have to know it’s not Brian.”
Keith would mutter how fucking childish and that he was full of himself. He would nearly stomp off. When Brian was found dead in his pool on July 3rd, 1969, Keith knew he would never be able to pursue anything with Brian. Mick would use it to his advantage. When they would argue, he would bring it up.
“You’ve never felt what it’s like when he plays you like an instrument. Oh wait, you won’t Keith.”
Keith would nearly just want to pound Mick’s face in, but knew he was messing with him, to get him angry.
He was walking towards the door, his feet sticking only seconds to the floor, making mall suction cup sounds. His pale hand had reached for the door knob. He opened it, greeted immediately by the hot moist air. The stair creaked in his ears as he descended them. Coming around the corner, his eyes recognized Keith and Gram. They were in the kitchen. For a brief moment, his eyes scanned the counter-tops.
Many things littered the wasteland-like counter-top. The marble could barely be seen due to the clutter: vodka bottles, syringes, traces of coke that were unfinished, unwashed plates, guitar picks, glasses, strings, and other assorted items. The sinks were filled with dirty water.
Cans of untouched peas were cast into lonely piles. The French chefs were baffled and confused as to why Keith had refused to even eat canned peas, and demanded fresh picked ones.
Random hangers-on had been lying around, scattered throughout the house, like fallen toy soldiers on a field. Most were Keith’s junkie buddies, people he took smack with, or some other drugs. Many times would they try to persuade Mick into joining them. Anita and Keith would, sometimes, try to convince Mick to join them. He would deny them, sometimes with a sneer. It had brought up a certain situation.
-
It was very late - actually very early in the morning, it’s just that the sun hadn’t risen yet. There was a party going on, much smaller than the one that a few hours ago, but still continued into the early hours of the morning. Random people were passing out, thunking on the floor like a large rock into a puddle. Random people fell against the wall, passed out, echoing into his room.
Random passer byers would scrape against his door. What Mick couldn’t believe is that they hadn’t even thought about using the door knob, it was actually unlocked, which reminded him that he should have it locked. He threw the covers off, to pile on the floor at the bottom of the bed.
His feet slid across the plush, but grimy carpet. It had filtered through his toes, leaving a slight icky feeling. His feet moved over random objects, fabrics and clothes.
He clicked the lock, making the audible sound declaring that it couldn’t be opened from the outside. He then shuffled back into the bed, picking up the cast aside blanket, and pulling them up to cover his rail thin form. He grunted in response to the shuffling feet passing by and raping their knuckles against his door. The sounds kept him away from sleeping.
A clock sat high on the wall. It’s black frame contrasting from the wall. It looked as though it was ready to stop on defiance, its own command. Mick would find himself many times glaring at it, hoping to scare it into speeding up time so he wouldn’t have to hear junkies pass by his room
“There’re worse than those mother fucking groupies that follow us around,” he though bitterly.
He would lie there, as still as corpse. He would silently wish that they would leave and stop mooching off of them. He pulled the material closer to his body, curling tighter into a ball, wishing it would all be over
-
He walked pass them. Both were laughing at something Mick didn’t feel like sticking around to find out, so he had quickly done what he had came to do. A bottle had fallen, its sound thumping on the floor briefly held his attention. Gram’s country soaked voice filtered into the room with “Stop being so clumsy Keith!” Keith had seen Mick, and a broad grin spread onto his face.
“Her majesties is going back to her palace,” Keith had joked to Gram, “back to powder her nose!”
Keith and Gram doubled over in laughter. Mick just left in silence, not even sparing a glance at the two as laughter spilled from their mouths. He had a cup of liquid and some food and carried on back up the stairs, stepping over passed out junkies on the floor, not even sparing a glance
________
He was lightly strumming. Keith had looked at the table in front of him. He had started to tally up what he had done in the last 24 hours.
Several lines of coke, bottle of alcohol, a hand full of Tunials, Quaaludes, Xanax, a few joints, and a mystery drug that had already worn off after he took it. He wasn’t counting the last few days of what he had done. But for once in his life, he sat in utter complete silence. Usually there was some song or tune frolicking in his mind. Oddly, he was enjoying the rare silence. His demons seemed to scamper away for tonight, or this morning, whichever came first.
He was strumming absently. Plucking random chords in a free like jam. He had gone from blues jamming to country like jams. He was slightly studying the basements walls and the environment around him. There swastikas lining some of the vents, a small stack of amps - they were way out of tune due to the blistering heat - some guitars, strings, and other various items.
His supplies started to run low. He hadn’t seen Spanish Tony or heard from him, nor did he think of calling him up. He wasn’t sure if he was thankful or pissed off.
His eyes fell on a lonely abandoned can of peas. Almost 30 some years after, these fuckers were still torturing him. They still messed with him. He had refused to eat those damned canned peas because of them. Those damn Nazi’s wouldn’t allow him to rest. He knew it confused the chef’s, but they still catered to his whims.
His hand drifted to his pockets. He searched them, but came up empty. He sat the guitar down gently and fished through his pockets. He made sure he wouldn’t knock down the guitar; he was like a mother to it. His eyes briefly flicked up to the clock, reading almost 5 in the morning. The unknown thing he took was already burning itself out of his system.
He looked up at the staircase, then to the chair that Gram had been sitting in. The basement was hot, not like earlier that day, but he had resorted to wearing his boots and a pair of grungy jeans. The boots clicked on the floor as he ascended up the stairs, creaking with every step.
He pondered what he should do. Bitchanca - his selected name for Mick’s wife, Bianca - wasn’t there, so he didn’t have to worry about her presence. She decided to go visit her parents. She didn’t want to deal with their rock star like antics.
Little Mick wasn’t up, neither was Bill. Charlie would shut the door in his face if he came up there to harass him. Cats had randomly run across the floor. A lot of Keith’s cats had been everywhere, skittering across the floor, making small noises.
He checked for his treasured white powder. His room was empty, the guest room, and the kitchen, everywhere. His mind was still a little to fizzled to remember where his beloved white powder was. The thought of calling Spanish Tony did cross him, but he didn’t feel like haring his annoying as fuck voice. Anita didn’t have any supplies most of the day, so he went off somewhere else.
He came to Mick’s room. It would be a little rude to wake someone when they are sleeping, to bad that he didn’t care. He pushed open the door, the pale moonlight assaulting his eyes. It flooded the room through the blinds and things had cast shadows as an act of defiance.
Mick was sleeping, instead of wearing only underwear and sleeping spread eagle, he had on a light t-shirt and underwear. His wavy brown hair was scattered across the pillow. His china doll skin seemed almost ethereal, as though he were a forest sprite. It seemed translucent, like he would fade away.
As he searched his room, he was becoming more unhappy by the moment.
“Where the hell can I just get some fucking coke around here?” he thought angrily.
He glanced back at Mick’s prone form. His eyes scanned up and down his body, silently admiring his features. It seemed as though his feminine features were showing more than his masculine features. The curves were brought out by his current position on the bed.
His attention started to shift, and suddenly any thought of the coke had left him.
-
His eyes twitched. He curled a little and shifted. The bed had sagged under new weight, and he suspected it was one of those cats, that Keith owned, had jumped onto the bed, so he paid them no mind. It wasn’t until a pair of legs straddled his own and a pair of chapped lips pressed against his lips.
Mick tried to keep his eyes shut but Keith kept him from that by roaming his hands around his thin flat stomach. His eyes cracked open slowly to see dark hair.
Keith’s slightly greasy hair fell forward and tickled his neck and forehead. Hands traced the contours of his stomach. He planted small kisses on his cheek all the way down to the slope of his neck, where he kept his face there, the slight growth on Keith’s face scratching his own clean and shaven face.
He put his hands around Keith’s back and rubbed it sympathetically, as if motherly.
“It’s too fucking early for this Keith,” Mick said tiredly,”come back at a fucking descent hour.”
With that, Mick rolled over, sending Keith crashing off him and to the floor. His brown eyes looked up at Mick’s prone form. His back was faced towards him. He sat up on his backside and gazed up at him. His eyes narrowed a bit and demanded something.
“Did you take the rest of my coke, you fucking cunt?”
“How the fuck am I supposed to know with what you do with your shit? It’s yours; go bother someone else about it.” Mick then promptly went back to sleep, not caring for the rest of the conversation.
Keith grunted as he sat back up to his feet. He pulled up his pants a little more. Letting out a puff of air, he reached for the pack of cigarette’s sitting on the nightstand. The ashtray was lined with used buds, some lined with lipstick either from Anita or Mick.
With a clink of a lighter, he let the soothing feel of nicotine filter through his body. Forgetting about his powdered friend, he let it dangle loosely and walked out of the room, planning on coming back to Mick to finish what he started a few moments ago. He went back to his room, too lazy to go back to the basement and to strum out a few more chords. He changed his unwashed jeans into something a bit shorter.
Traces of the sun rising sowed midnight blue dusting into a light blue, singes of yellow were just over the horizon. He saw a half empty bottle of scotch but didn’t feel like taking a drink, which was unusual. He snubbed out the cigarette in the tray, s picture of Buddy Holly in the bottom.
He decided to sleep off any remaining drugs in his system. Maybe he’ll laugh with Gram, prod at Mick, or help him write some new songs. He wasn’t sure, so he just decided to sleep off until he felt like getting up.
___________
It was early afternoon, probably almost 12pm. The heat had returned in almost full force. It seeped into the walls and filled into every crack and crevice the building had to offer. Clothes were abandoned on the floor, the material too warm to wear.
Keith came shambling down stairs, still rubbing the sand-mans sand out of his eyes. His fingers scratched at the morning growth on his face. His sleep lidded eyes looked out at his environment. His face scrunched up at a can of abandoned peas. There were people, not lot of them like last night, still strung out on the floor. His eyes fell upon the back of Gram, who was moving around the cluttered kitchen, near burnt out cigarette hanging loosely in his mouth.
Grams elbow hit a bottle, and in turn, hit another bottle, which had fallen to the floor. He made a sound and picked up the bottle.
“Hey Keith.” Gram said as he turned around and spotted Keith standing in the kitchens entrance.
Keith had grinned at him, giving him a hello sign. He had joined Gram in raiding the fridge. Not long after that, bit had ended up in the basement, pouring out melodies and notes. It was like a jam, but very loose. As they descended the stairs, both were chatting as to what they were going to be doing.
-
It wasn’t very late; Keith had tried to give a guess as to what the time it would be. The clock read around to be 4. People had passed through the basement and out. Mick happened to be the permanent visitor. He had come in about maybe 1 or 2 hours after Gram and Keith had entered. He had picked up a guitar and played along with Keith. Gram had set down his guitar and listened to what Mick and Keith had started to give out. He let the notes soothe his ears and let the music slide through his being. His feet tapped to the slow, but hypnotic beat.
A few hours into the jam, Gram and Keith were talking. Mick was still playing notes, but his attention was slowly being diverted. He was still playing, but kept sneaking glances at Gram and Keith talking to each other.
The walls were tinted because of the low light in the room. The left over smell of weed and the stale smell of vomit was clinging to the air. It was a bit cleaner where they were, the random items that usually littered the floor not there right now.
His fingers flexed on the guitar neck. Mick still watched, his glances becoming longer. The same question from earlier had popped up into his head. His eyes had slightly narrowed. His fingers steadily grew tighter on his guitar neck. He felt hot jealousy shoot through his body when Gram had slowly dragged his hand across Keith’s back, up to his shoulder where his hand was now resting. Mick had had enough of watching them together, and he got up. He set the guitar down and walked right out of the basement.
Grams eyes were on Mick’s back, but Mick paid him no mind. He watched him move and soon saw that Mick had jealousy in his movement.
Mick stood outside of the entrance of the basement. He slid a cigarette into his mouth. He would later stub it out harder than necessary. Mick really would like it if Gram would just disappear for a while and never come back. He pushed of the wall and headed out to the deck that was open. He sat down on one of the chairs, slowly taking puffs off of his cigarette, the nicotine addled smoke filling his lungs.
Was it over-protectiveness that caused his to shelter Keith from other people? Was it his own selfishness to have Keith all to himself? Or was it the bubbling jealousy that he felt for Gram? The fact that Keith was paying attention to someone else other than him really didn’t help his situation. Mick looked out at the scenery. The heat had calmed down, but still stuck to everything. It wasn’t sunset just yet, but the sun was beginning to seep behind the horizon. His feet tapped he ground, a soundless tune in his head.
______
Keith sat near his bed. His back was bear and he had on the same pair of jeans for the past few days. His knees were propped up and an acoustic was in his hands. Whenever he was alone, he was playing his guitar or he was doing whatever drug he was favoring. His calloused fingers moved over the sinewy strings and along the neck, allowing notes to freely flow.
He would sometimes ponder things. Being alone ends up allowing a person to think, or mull over what was happening. His thoughts would range from childhood memories, his idols, if the police were trying to follow him around, whether or not he wanted Spanish Tony to come or not - he was low, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to even see that annoying as fuck person. He sometimes got lost in his thoughts. The naturally boundless energy he always possessed wasn’t thrumming through his body at the moment.
His eyes had unconsciously risen to his bed. The twisted covers lay in heaps. It hadn’t been made in many days. His eyes had unconsciously narrowed. His jaundiced eyes moved over the fabric. His thoughts had brought up a situation that happened a long - well, not so much to Keith - while ago. He did remember it like yesterday. Anita ended up letting it slip, but she didn’t really care if she did. It was then forever burned into his brain, whether he liked it or not. Familiar feelings ended up returning.
-
Anita was lying beside him. They were in some hotel and the room was littered with their things. Keith wasn’t sure what time it was. The blinds had blocked some of the dull warm sunlight from filtering in. The room was given a reddish hue glow.
Anita’s hair looked lighter, as if it were given a pearly blond glow. She was snuggled up to him, tracing small circles and patterns on his flat abdomen. Her blond hair, now shoulder length, was tickling his stomach and chest. Keith was absently running his fingers through her hair, admiring how soft each strand felt as it moved across his palm.
She would sometimes run her hand through his lion’s mane of tresses and tug on it. His hair was getting longer, it was almost shoulder length. She giggled a bit. Keith had wondered how Brian could hit this woman, but she ended up giving him just as good back. They would be in love, but were in a constant sparring match, trying to out do each other.
He smiled down at how, barring his own misaligned teeth in a toothy smile. She was looking at him. She was lying on his stomach, her fingers slowly tracing her patterns on his stomach.
“Hey Keef,” she piped up in her thickly accented voice.
“Yeah babe?”
“Are you and Brian still mates?” Her voice took on a quirky like quality.
“Yeah,” he answered, not really thinking about it.
“Even if Brian and Mick were fucking?” she asked, still with a steady voice.
His toothy smile had faded and his hand had stopped moving once the sentence settled into his head. Did… she just say…
“They… were wot?”
“Mm,” she gave a hum of acknowledgement, “they slept together, probably several times knowing them.” Anita had leaned off of him and grabbed a cigarette. She lay back down on his stomach. Her fingers lightly scratched his stomach.
What was Anita trying to say? Why was he just figuring this out? Why hadn’t Brian or Mick tell him? Bastards! He expected Mick to tell him everything! They were best friends! Surely they could tell each other anything, even that. He was fucking cheating on hi-… huh? Hold on, back up.
Cheating? How was Mick supposed to be cheating on him? They weren’t an object nor was there any type of relationship between, if you count the occasional sex between the two when there wasn‘t a groupie to take of them, then maybe you could count that. Mick hadn’t technically belonged to him, or vice versa. It was just for the sole reason of relieving each other.
Besides, that could have been the media. It wasn’t the first time they had made outrages accusations about them. Some had completely focused on what Mick’s sexuality was, questioning just what was he. How they would try to find anything on him.
Who was he kidding, Mick was made to take the brunt of things. He was the singer; so naturally, they get more of the blame. Mick was like the escape goat for their troubles, so it was easier to blame him. Mick was like his punching bag.
Something was welling up in Keith. It was a weird emotion, but was familiar. It was like Cupid shot rejection and jealousy into his heart. He pondered. Just how did Brian choose Mick over him when he could have a lot more in common with Brian than Mick did? How come?
Jealousy was pouring itself in faster than he could down a shot of brandy. His hand dropped on the bed and stopped messaging Anita’s hair. Anita had already stubbed out her cigarette and was working on her second one. Keith looked over at her.
“I know because Brian has told me so himself. More than one occasion.” her voice filtered into his ears. It was as though she was commenting off handedly.
-
That was only a few years ago. It was maybe a year before Brian died in his swimming pool. He still remembered what Anita told him as if it were a few hours ago. He didn’t approach Brian about it, his pride and jealousy didn’t allow him to even bring up or even hint at the subject. Nor did he press the matter with Mick. Even if he and Mick were fornicating with each other, he wouldn’t let it slip. Even when woman weren’t around, he seemingly turned to Mick, but not Brian.
When he did come around to asking Brian, it was too late. He was always putting it off or deciding he would do it later. Mick ended up finding out about it, maybe because Anita let it slip or something. But he had found out. If a fight ensured between the two, Mick brought it up. It took everything not to go over and brutally remodel Mick’s face. He would just nearly loose it.
“So, do I need to put on a blond wig and dance for you? Would you like that?” Mick would say in a sarcastic voice.
Keith would purse his lips together, fists clenching and unclenching. Even remembering that was enough to make his blood boil. His eyes had burned across the bed he sat across from. His thoughts were spilling into his head. His mind focused on the bed.
The bed that Mick and Brian waltzed in, creating their own dance.
The blankets that covered their sinewy bodies, providing the only clothing.
The mattress that supported them, allowing them to use it as a foundation.
The pillows. How Mick would press his head into when Brian conducted, or even vice versa.
He glared at it, hating how it reminded him of their dance. The entire thought had taken him out of his own created tranquility. It caused him to become frustrated and unnerved. He also took note that he was squeezing and gripping the guitar neck hard. His fingers were strumming harder than he was before. He would snap a string if he didn’t let up. He sat down the guitar gently.
He ventured out of his room.
-
He sat on a mountain of plush pillows. Mick had sort of confiscated pillows randomly throughout the house. They found their way into a spread out pile on the floor. The soft pillows, albeit a little dirty, were laid across random spots on his rooms floor. Mick sat perched upon them, like an eagle in its nest. With a notepad and pen in his hands, Mick was scribbling down and crossing out lyrics.
He was writing down words that came to him, occasionally singing out a tune he thought would work well with. He lifted his head up ever now and then to hear the cats that roamed around scratching at his door. He would get up and open the door for them, but they couldn’t decide if thy wanted to lounge in his room or roam around.
He would regard them with an annoyed stare and would close the door, muttering how Keith needed to keep those cats away. He would hear them skittering across the floor, making small noises, occasionally thumping across the floor.
He was stuck on a lyric, and he was very annoyed and couldn’t go on. He tapped the pen on his chin as he stared at the pad.
Before he could cross out the next line, the door swung open, and it slammed against the wall with a whoosh of air. As he looked up, a skeletal figure had pushed him back into the plush pillows. He grunted as the figure straddled his own rail thin legs. The pen and pad had dropped and became lonely abandoned utensils.
“Mmph,” Mick had said as Keith started kissing all over his face, his calloused fingers inching their way under his thin shirt and up his thin body.
Clothes were cast aside and into lonely pools of fabric. Kisses turned into long throws of passion.
-
Mick was exhausted and spent. His sweat slick hair clung to his shoulders, neck and forehead. His shoulders and back were pressed into the plush pillows. He looked over at his clothes and tiredly reached out for them.
Keith was squeezing back into his grungy jeans. His spine had poked through his back as he bent and strained some to get them back on. His skeletal frame had crawled back onto Mick. Keith’s boundless energy was now coursing. Mick just sighed and encircled Keith with his arms. If this was going to be like one of those nights that he Keith had, he might as well not even bother with his clothes.
______
Gram sat in the kitchen, a chair pulled to the side. The late morning sun high in the sky. The warm sunlight had padded its way into the kitchen, heating up the objects that it hit. A cup of coffee in his hand, and a half burnt out cigarette in the other.
He stared into the other room, watching the inhabitants. His attention happened to fall upon Keith and Mick, who were playing out melodies and writing lyrics. When Keith would play, Mick would scribble down, and sometimes cross out, some lines that contained lyrics. They weren’t in the basement for once.
He sipped some of his coffee. His eyes mostly studying at what they were doing. His eyes would mostly drift off to what Keith was doing, then occasionally flicking off to Mick.
His cigarette was dangling loosely in his mouth. Familiar feelings were lingering in his chest.
The more he was around Keith, the more he liked him. He couldn’t help it. Keith was starting to occupy more of his thoughts lately than anything else. He watched what Keith would do, and he would become more interested. Sometimes he would stare a little too long. He would have to stop before Mick would catch him. He did like Keith, and he was ready to chase after him, but there was something that prohibited him. Gram took another sip.
Mick Jagger. .
Keith’s songwriting buddy and friend of 10+ years.
It was that Mick - Gram replaced the coffee with the cigarette - kept him away Jagger was very unhappy about him and Keith were hanging out. When they would interact, Mick would watch in some form of way. Gram would act like he didn’t know, that it didn’t affect him, but he secretly knew about it. He saw how Mick would make small physical signs that he was irritated, and mutter to himself.
It drove Mick to jealousy to see that Keith was favoring another person over him Gram just happened to be the one. Gram felt a little smug that Keith was liking someone other than Mick. Even though he was constantly with Gram, he couldn’t stop Keith from coming back to Mick.
He knew a little of their relationship, he had some suspicions that they were a little more than band mates. Keith would wonder back to Mick, for whatever reason it was. If Gram tried his hardest to keep Keith, he would always go back to Mick.
He noticed some of their caresses, their lingering touches and glances. Even to when Keith would leave Mick’s room with disheveled clothes, or vice versa, sometimes together. Gram just couldn’t help it, the man was fine.
He lit up another cigarette.
Am I like, the only one who wants some slash fiction on them?