It's been a long time since I've done an angst fic.
Title: The Angry Seduction of A Muse
Rating: R
Pairings: Pete/Roger
Time Period: Uh... 1970 - '71
Word Count: 2570
Warnings: A bit of violence, language, allusions to fantasies, angst
Disclaimer: I don't own the Who; I would like to, but I'm flat broke.
Summary: A tense recording session comes to a bitter stand-still after feelings are revealed.
A guitar could be heard as the notes skidded past in a decidedly angry manor. Pete is strumming with tense fingers-- don’t know yet, suppose the name is coming to his vague memory-- as he finally steps out of his trance. He has a bottle perched on the table next to him-- no, he has a few bottles lying empty of their liquid as if the life were drained from them and now were just useless pieces of glass hanging on for no reason at all. He stops to glower at that big studio prison window congested of blank-faced people monitoring every note he birthed from his guitar into the empty but crowded studio air in an accursed blast of music.
But not everyone behind that window is an unrecognizable face of television glass tuned to record his every movement. That’s right, Roger was there, unless he decided to be occupied with certain matters that he believed were more important then Pete making the foundation to what could be the next song or possible single. It drains the blood into his fingers, causing him to crossly grip the neck of his guitar; if the guitar could speak out against his actions, it would be screaming with squawking notes to stop.
“I want a break,” Pete sharply replies and lifts his head; his brain was too infused with alcohol to come up with an excuse. He cleared his throat and folded his arms atop on his guitar.
“… alright, Pete.” A familiar voice booms over the loud-speakers. Roger is wary behind the clear glass, his body bent over the studio dials, his cork-screw blond curls perturbing into his face. Blue eyes gazed at through the solid gateway at Pete, his fingers fidgeting at the intense stare that Pete gave the window. His eyes briefly met up with the bottles lying on the table beside the guitarist.
“We’ll regroup in an hour. By that time, I’ll have something going then.”
Roger leaned off of the dials and looked back at the studio crew and back to Pete. “Are you sure? We don’t need to have that much time ou--”
Everything is cut short by a bitter ice stare from the guitarist, crushing him with the weight of its force. The force hits him to the point of snapping his mouth shut for reasons unknown. “Fine then,” Roger murmured straightening out his shirt as the crew stood up and began to leave the room with slight voices of light protest. The door shuts quietly and nobody was there to help Roger out in the eye of Pete’s unhappy mood.
They are alone now and it was somehow unnerving to Roger. Everything around him feels pressurized and high-strung as he is now locked in this tiny space with a potentially drunk Pete Townshend. The walls turn up their invisible ears to hear this impending massacre about to take place and the lights hum in acknowledgment that blows would become inevitable between the two. Roger somehow feels much safer inside the tiny, electrical booth of buttons and dials and wearily stares at Pete’s posture.
Something about the sight of Roger’s fidgeting sets of something in Pete which only proves to fuel his hunger and rigid attitude. It made him feel powerful over the smaller man who was always in control. His alcohol inflated mind had breathed out coo’s that he was now the man over him. He was like a charming man. This cagey feeling he had wordlessly implanted only served to make him much more tense. Roger wants to stand up and go out there into the room with Pete, but something told him not to; it could be possibly dangerous for a reason his brain couldn’t cough out. He doesn’t understand this brutality. This angry aura that is vibrating over Pete’s being with such an intense feeling.
Roger switches his eyes away as Pete shifts through his pocket to find cigarette, sliding it up and into his teeth. A sharp silence is heavily sagging inside except for one sound: a lighter flicking, then the cold sound of the metal lid clacking shut, echoing through the harsh air. A bloated cloud of smoke curls away from Pete’s mouth as his teeth slightly grind on the poor, abused cancer stick. Roger finally decided to take the risk and step away from the cover and safety of the booth and advance up towards Pete; he felt awkward when Pete’s eyes snapped onto his approaching figure, that severe, piercing blue gaze observing him like a spectator. Roger felt like he could sympathize with those zoo animals, always being watched day-in and day-out. He seats himself into one of the empty studio chairs reserved for another musician all the while Pete is still watching him.
The guitar in Pete’s hand shivered into a long silence after Pete’s fingers cut off their rhythm suddenly serving to only alert Roger more. Pete finally sets it aside and raises to his full height and softly strode over to Roger. The older boy felt uneasy under the scrutiny of the younger one. Pete’s face is devoid of emotion and he drops into a crouch, folding his legs and placing his hands on Roger’s knees. Roger nearly jumps from this action. Pete lifts a careful hand to gently plow through the blond curls. Roger wants to recoil, not out of disgust for this seemingly innocent touch, but out of fear. He is extremely put off by the sudden attitude that Pete had gone through; it was like Pete had gone from a sour churlishness to a calm and steady mood.
Roger’s eyes briefly flipped towards the big window to see the reflection of them both projecting on the surface. He saw Pete crouched, himself sitting, that tender but violent hand making a soft encounter, the gentleness mirrored in Pete’s eyes, the curious intent of this who ordeal. It feels fragile; something in Roger’s mind expected Pete to turn this soft feeling into something akin to a malicious intent. Then he saw the bottles of empty liquor on the table and something bent until it snapped in his mind.
“I see how it is,” Roger mutters, his fingers curling into a tight embrace. Pete lets smoke leak from his mouth, bellowing up into Roger’s nostrils. Pete responds with a hum of acknowledgment as he is too busy to say a physical response. “You can only face me like this when your fucking sloshed outside your skull.”
These words plow into Pete like nothing before and he recoils back, yanking his hand away as though he had been burned. Roger and Pete’s eyes met in a relentless stare-down, giving each other a scorn hoping the other would crumble like sand-castle walls. There was a hostility manifesting itself and steadily growing at a progressed rate. It was slowly becoming fastidious and each detail was leaving a detailed imprint of how this would sum up. Pete snorts harshly and rises back up to his feet.
Roger watches him, waiting for a move, as Pete paces the floor, his feet making harsh slaps against the ground. Roger watches for his reaction shot: he is dragging on his cigarette in a more unhappy manor, his eyes narrowed and as lethal as acid. Roger doesn’t rise from his seat opting to stay where he is.
“You don’t feel guilt, do you now Pete?” Roger said, his voice tightening. “Since your drunk, you don’t have to face rejection and going out to get shit-faced drunk and not remember the bloody thing in the morning.”
Pete’s laugh is low with a cynical undertone and it flows through Roger’s ear, a sick tremble ruffling his small, compacted frame.
“You have no idea how it is for me,” Pete curtly replied. “How are you to make decisions for me when you don’t know me inside? You see me everyday but that gives you no fucking right to judge me.”
“Such strong words coming from a drunken imbecile.”
Pete swiftly turned around and nearly lost his balance. Roger had risen to a standing posture and Pete began to advance. Silently Pete had placed an anxiety in Roger for a moment. His eyes are trained on Roger and he steadily gets closer. Roger feared that he might have pushed Pete too far this time as he sees the smoldering flames burning brightly in his eyes. This was now a spontaneous situation: anything, and everything, absolutely goes. They both advanced and backed away, one acting like the predator and the other a hunted animal. Bloodshed seemed to be inevitable sooner or later.
There was a storm brewing in the room; the thunder pounding harshly, lightning streaking menacingly through the room, a relentless massacre thrums as the back into a wall, Roger’s shoulders pressed into the cold and unsympathetic cement wall, refusing to let him escape, Pete coming to a stop right in front of him.
“You should watch your words if I were you Roger…” Pete’s voice trailed off, contorted with a calm and dangerous tone, barely rasping over a normal talking noise. Silence rings through the universe around them and allowed nothing to penetrate its thick and murky walls.
“What is it to you Townshend? You never allowed my words to get at you. What’s the difference now?” Roger became braver and allowed himself to speak freely. Pete’s brow twitched in irritation.
“Maybe I’m feeling like today is the day to thrash the ever-living fuck outta that smart, prissy mouth of yours,” Pete spoke gruffly, his voice grating like sand-paper against exposed skin. “Always running that sodding mouth of yours; maybe you need a reality check here.”
“I’d feel guilty leaving you in a pile of your own blood and cracked teeth,” Roger grated out, the obvious height difference resonating in his mind fully.
“You,” Pete jabbed a finger in Roger’s chest, “leave me in my own teeth? Such arrogant words coming from such a small, petulant boy.” Roger’s eyes narrowed and he had to clamp down on the inside of his mouth from letting his anger leak and curl onto the floor for the world to see in its glory; he’s unnerved and definitely hates a drunken Pete.
“I can do it if I have to. You’re too much of a stick to do any damage; you really have no force behind that fist of yours--”
Abruptly something forceful collided with his face, a collapse of astral stars falling on his head and a brief haze of pain turned into clouds revolve around his vision. He just realizes that Pete just landed a blow on him. His head snaps to the side and remains there, mostly shock takes over pain and he licks the inside of his cheek, tasting the tang of iron-copper. It’s slowly filling his mouth, then discharging from his mouth, smearing his lips with a ruby coating. He sucks in a sharp breath, his pupils dilating into livid slits, his face heated. He turned his head back to Pete and found the man staring at him, his face void of any emotion except the angry fury laced behind his eyes.
Roger wants to laugh; just get this out like a fucking mad loon. It’s funny how this skinny, awkwardly angled man with a beak the size of all Europe is standing here hoping to be threatening in some type of way. He doesn’t-- can’t take it seriously.
“Now what Roger?” Pete mocked. “Are you going to be a fucking bitch about it and haul off on me? Or what?”
Roger noted the strain in Pete’s voice. It turns out that Pete did have a good fist and he never wanted to test it out again. This… kid is taunting him with threats that he wouldn’t even dare do or even think of. It makes the situation a laughing matter. Just then Roger realized the guffaws leaving his mouth and wished to silence them but Pete did it before he could. With leverage as powerful as Roger hadn’t seen, Pete grasped his neck and dropped him to the ground, his head colliding with the wall.
“Why is this so fucking amusing to you?” Pete demanded. “You think you can just laugh at me and get away with it? You worthless berk, always thinking your much more valuable then me. Well you know? Maybe you are-- at least more then I would like.”
Roger could barely focus on Pete as a dull throbbing pain ignited in his head. He could hear his heart pounding in his head, threatening to destroy itself.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t be anything valuable if my hands were all over you like in my dreams. Maybe it would be me who soiled you.” Pete’s voice was calm, any ire was erased from it; just a soothing voice that was being produced from that voice-box he possessed.
Roger doubled, as much as he could against the pain, and stopped. Did Pete say what he heard? Was the pain that bad that a potential concussion developed in his mind? Whatever it was Pete had Roger’s attention. Pete steadily dropped his height to be at level with Roger. A hand was warmly scrapping over his cheek.
“Maybe I’m frustrated that the one thing I’ve known in my life is the one thing that’s off limits.” His hand raveled around his face, fingers touching on the drying liquid that was crusting to Roger’s mouth.
“Do you want me to stop?” Pete spoke as though he were breaking his character, his voice softly wafting in the air around Roger’s ears. “Christ, everything about you. You’re right, I can’t do this without a fucking drink because I am scared. Scared of your rejection and hate that would be spurred. Couldn’t deal wit hit.”
Roger listened intently and decided that his mouth was too heavy to keep working.
“I’d rather do this when I’m not making drunken thoughts or movements. But I want it so bad.”
“Want what?” Roger whispered.
Pete leaned in but hesitated and recoiled back to stand up. “I can’t. Not like this.”
Roger felt a pang slam into his heart as he saw Pete struggle with differences. It was enough to want to reach out t Pete, to cling to his body and tell him it’s alright. This was now not the case as Roger couldn’t do anything to stop it. Pete began retreating to the exit door, his movements slowed down and slightly ungraceful. He picked up his soft packet of cigarette’s to pull out another to calm down. He allowed the smoke to infiltrate his lungs, exhaling it out like a dragon. He stopped in the doorway.
“Perhaps one day we’ll finish this. Just not now.” Pete didn’t even turn around. He didn’t want Roger to see the look in his eye; an utterly hopeless one of loosing the battle against himself. Roger was in his boat of troubles. Moisture tried to pour from his eyes but Roger held them back.
“I’ll wait for it Roger,” Pete said and left.
Nobody was left in the room. He did the one thing sensible in his mind: he drew his legs together and wrapped his shaking arms around them. He let out a heady, quivering cry.
A cry that sharply hit the wall to only be ignored by these disinterested walls and harsh, blinking white lights that laughed in a complete mockery at him.
Rating: R
Pairings: Pete/Roger
Time Period: Uh... 1970 - '71
Word Count: 2570
Warnings: A bit of violence, language, allusions to fantasies, angst
Disclaimer: I don't own the Who; I would like to, but I'm flat broke.
Summary: A tense recording session comes to a bitter stand-still after feelings are revealed.
A guitar could be heard as the notes skidded past in a decidedly angry manor. Pete is strumming with tense fingers-- don’t know yet, suppose the name is coming to his vague memory-- as he finally steps out of his trance. He has a bottle perched on the table next to him-- no, he has a few bottles lying empty of their liquid as if the life were drained from them and now were just useless pieces of glass hanging on for no reason at all. He stops to glower at that big studio prison window congested of blank-faced people monitoring every note he birthed from his guitar into the empty but crowded studio air in an accursed blast of music.
But not everyone behind that window is an unrecognizable face of television glass tuned to record his every movement. That’s right, Roger was there, unless he decided to be occupied with certain matters that he believed were more important then Pete making the foundation to what could be the next song or possible single. It drains the blood into his fingers, causing him to crossly grip the neck of his guitar; if the guitar could speak out against his actions, it would be screaming with squawking notes to stop.
“I want a break,” Pete sharply replies and lifts his head; his brain was too infused with alcohol to come up with an excuse. He cleared his throat and folded his arms atop on his guitar.
“… alright, Pete.” A familiar voice booms over the loud-speakers. Roger is wary behind the clear glass, his body bent over the studio dials, his cork-screw blond curls perturbing into his face. Blue eyes gazed at through the solid gateway at Pete, his fingers fidgeting at the intense stare that Pete gave the window. His eyes briefly met up with the bottles lying on the table beside the guitarist.
“We’ll regroup in an hour. By that time, I’ll have something going then.”
Roger leaned off of the dials and looked back at the studio crew and back to Pete. “Are you sure? We don’t need to have that much time ou--”
Everything is cut short by a bitter ice stare from the guitarist, crushing him with the weight of its force. The force hits him to the point of snapping his mouth shut for reasons unknown. “Fine then,” Roger murmured straightening out his shirt as the crew stood up and began to leave the room with slight voices of light protest. The door shuts quietly and nobody was there to help Roger out in the eye of Pete’s unhappy mood.
They are alone now and it was somehow unnerving to Roger. Everything around him feels pressurized and high-strung as he is now locked in this tiny space with a potentially drunk Pete Townshend. The walls turn up their invisible ears to hear this impending massacre about to take place and the lights hum in acknowledgment that blows would become inevitable between the two. Roger somehow feels much safer inside the tiny, electrical booth of buttons and dials and wearily stares at Pete’s posture.
Something about the sight of Roger’s fidgeting sets of something in Pete which only proves to fuel his hunger and rigid attitude. It made him feel powerful over the smaller man who was always in control. His alcohol inflated mind had breathed out coo’s that he was now the man over him. He was like a charming man. This cagey feeling he had wordlessly implanted only served to make him much more tense. Roger wants to stand up and go out there into the room with Pete, but something told him not to; it could be possibly dangerous for a reason his brain couldn’t cough out. He doesn’t understand this brutality. This angry aura that is vibrating over Pete’s being with such an intense feeling.
Roger switches his eyes away as Pete shifts through his pocket to find cigarette, sliding it up and into his teeth. A sharp silence is heavily sagging inside except for one sound: a lighter flicking, then the cold sound of the metal lid clacking shut, echoing through the harsh air. A bloated cloud of smoke curls away from Pete’s mouth as his teeth slightly grind on the poor, abused cancer stick. Roger finally decided to take the risk and step away from the cover and safety of the booth and advance up towards Pete; he felt awkward when Pete’s eyes snapped onto his approaching figure, that severe, piercing blue gaze observing him like a spectator. Roger felt like he could sympathize with those zoo animals, always being watched day-in and day-out. He seats himself into one of the empty studio chairs reserved for another musician all the while Pete is still watching him.
The guitar in Pete’s hand shivered into a long silence after Pete’s fingers cut off their rhythm suddenly serving to only alert Roger more. Pete finally sets it aside and raises to his full height and softly strode over to Roger. The older boy felt uneasy under the scrutiny of the younger one. Pete’s face is devoid of emotion and he drops into a crouch, folding his legs and placing his hands on Roger’s knees. Roger nearly jumps from this action. Pete lifts a careful hand to gently plow through the blond curls. Roger wants to recoil, not out of disgust for this seemingly innocent touch, but out of fear. He is extremely put off by the sudden attitude that Pete had gone through; it was like Pete had gone from a sour churlishness to a calm and steady mood.
Roger’s eyes briefly flipped towards the big window to see the reflection of them both projecting on the surface. He saw Pete crouched, himself sitting, that tender but violent hand making a soft encounter, the gentleness mirrored in Pete’s eyes, the curious intent of this who ordeal. It feels fragile; something in Roger’s mind expected Pete to turn this soft feeling into something akin to a malicious intent. Then he saw the bottles of empty liquor on the table and something bent until it snapped in his mind.
“I see how it is,” Roger mutters, his fingers curling into a tight embrace. Pete lets smoke leak from his mouth, bellowing up into Roger’s nostrils. Pete responds with a hum of acknowledgment as he is too busy to say a physical response. “You can only face me like this when your fucking sloshed outside your skull.”
These words plow into Pete like nothing before and he recoils back, yanking his hand away as though he had been burned. Roger and Pete’s eyes met in a relentless stare-down, giving each other a scorn hoping the other would crumble like sand-castle walls. There was a hostility manifesting itself and steadily growing at a progressed rate. It was slowly becoming fastidious and each detail was leaving a detailed imprint of how this would sum up. Pete snorts harshly and rises back up to his feet.
Roger watches him, waiting for a move, as Pete paces the floor, his feet making harsh slaps against the ground. Roger watches for his reaction shot: he is dragging on his cigarette in a more unhappy manor, his eyes narrowed and as lethal as acid. Roger doesn’t rise from his seat opting to stay where he is.
“You don’t feel guilt, do you now Pete?” Roger said, his voice tightening. “Since your drunk, you don’t have to face rejection and going out to get shit-faced drunk and not remember the bloody thing in the morning.”
Pete’s laugh is low with a cynical undertone and it flows through Roger’s ear, a sick tremble ruffling his small, compacted frame.
“You have no idea how it is for me,” Pete curtly replied. “How are you to make decisions for me when you don’t know me inside? You see me everyday but that gives you no fucking right to judge me.”
“Such strong words coming from a drunken imbecile.”
Pete swiftly turned around and nearly lost his balance. Roger had risen to a standing posture and Pete began to advance. Silently Pete had placed an anxiety in Roger for a moment. His eyes are trained on Roger and he steadily gets closer. Roger feared that he might have pushed Pete too far this time as he sees the smoldering flames burning brightly in his eyes. This was now a spontaneous situation: anything, and everything, absolutely goes. They both advanced and backed away, one acting like the predator and the other a hunted animal. Bloodshed seemed to be inevitable sooner or later.
There was a storm brewing in the room; the thunder pounding harshly, lightning streaking menacingly through the room, a relentless massacre thrums as the back into a wall, Roger’s shoulders pressed into the cold and unsympathetic cement wall, refusing to let him escape, Pete coming to a stop right in front of him.
“You should watch your words if I were you Roger…” Pete’s voice trailed off, contorted with a calm and dangerous tone, barely rasping over a normal talking noise. Silence rings through the universe around them and allowed nothing to penetrate its thick and murky walls.
“What is it to you Townshend? You never allowed my words to get at you. What’s the difference now?” Roger became braver and allowed himself to speak freely. Pete’s brow twitched in irritation.
“Maybe I’m feeling like today is the day to thrash the ever-living fuck outta that smart, prissy mouth of yours,” Pete spoke gruffly, his voice grating like sand-paper against exposed skin. “Always running that sodding mouth of yours; maybe you need a reality check here.”
“I’d feel guilty leaving you in a pile of your own blood and cracked teeth,” Roger grated out, the obvious height difference resonating in his mind fully.
“You,” Pete jabbed a finger in Roger’s chest, “leave me in my own teeth? Such arrogant words coming from such a small, petulant boy.” Roger’s eyes narrowed and he had to clamp down on the inside of his mouth from letting his anger leak and curl onto the floor for the world to see in its glory; he’s unnerved and definitely hates a drunken Pete.
“I can do it if I have to. You’re too much of a stick to do any damage; you really have no force behind that fist of yours--”
Abruptly something forceful collided with his face, a collapse of astral stars falling on his head and a brief haze of pain turned into clouds revolve around his vision. He just realizes that Pete just landed a blow on him. His head snaps to the side and remains there, mostly shock takes over pain and he licks the inside of his cheek, tasting the tang of iron-copper. It’s slowly filling his mouth, then discharging from his mouth, smearing his lips with a ruby coating. He sucks in a sharp breath, his pupils dilating into livid slits, his face heated. He turned his head back to Pete and found the man staring at him, his face void of any emotion except the angry fury laced behind his eyes.
Roger wants to laugh; just get this out like a fucking mad loon. It’s funny how this skinny, awkwardly angled man with a beak the size of all Europe is standing here hoping to be threatening in some type of way. He doesn’t-- can’t take it seriously.
“Now what Roger?” Pete mocked. “Are you going to be a fucking bitch about it and haul off on me? Or what?”
Roger noted the strain in Pete’s voice. It turns out that Pete did have a good fist and he never wanted to test it out again. This… kid is taunting him with threats that he wouldn’t even dare do or even think of. It makes the situation a laughing matter. Just then Roger realized the guffaws leaving his mouth and wished to silence them but Pete did it before he could. With leverage as powerful as Roger hadn’t seen, Pete grasped his neck and dropped him to the ground, his head colliding with the wall.
“Why is this so fucking amusing to you?” Pete demanded. “You think you can just laugh at me and get away with it? You worthless berk, always thinking your much more valuable then me. Well you know? Maybe you are-- at least more then I would like.”
Roger could barely focus on Pete as a dull throbbing pain ignited in his head. He could hear his heart pounding in his head, threatening to destroy itself.
“Perhaps you wouldn’t be anything valuable if my hands were all over you like in my dreams. Maybe it would be me who soiled you.” Pete’s voice was calm, any ire was erased from it; just a soothing voice that was being produced from that voice-box he possessed.
Roger doubled, as much as he could against the pain, and stopped. Did Pete say what he heard? Was the pain that bad that a potential concussion developed in his mind? Whatever it was Pete had Roger’s attention. Pete steadily dropped his height to be at level with Roger. A hand was warmly scrapping over his cheek.
“Maybe I’m frustrated that the one thing I’ve known in my life is the one thing that’s off limits.” His hand raveled around his face, fingers touching on the drying liquid that was crusting to Roger’s mouth.
“Do you want me to stop?” Pete spoke as though he were breaking his character, his voice softly wafting in the air around Roger’s ears. “Christ, everything about you. You’re right, I can’t do this without a fucking drink because I am scared. Scared of your rejection and hate that would be spurred. Couldn’t deal wit hit.”
Roger listened intently and decided that his mouth was too heavy to keep working.
“I’d rather do this when I’m not making drunken thoughts or movements. But I want it so bad.”
“Want what?” Roger whispered.
Pete leaned in but hesitated and recoiled back to stand up. “I can’t. Not like this.”
Roger felt a pang slam into his heart as he saw Pete struggle with differences. It was enough to want to reach out t Pete, to cling to his body and tell him it’s alright. This was now not the case as Roger couldn’t do anything to stop it. Pete began retreating to the exit door, his movements slowed down and slightly ungraceful. He picked up his soft packet of cigarette’s to pull out another to calm down. He allowed the smoke to infiltrate his lungs, exhaling it out like a dragon. He stopped in the doorway.
“Perhaps one day we’ll finish this. Just not now.” Pete didn’t even turn around. He didn’t want Roger to see the look in his eye; an utterly hopeless one of loosing the battle against himself. Roger was in his boat of troubles. Moisture tried to pour from his eyes but Roger held them back.
“I’ll wait for it Roger,” Pete said and left.
Nobody was left in the room. He did the one thing sensible in his mind: he drew his legs together and wrapped his shaking arms around them. He let out a heady, quivering cry.
A cry that sharply hit the wall to only be ignored by these disinterested walls and harsh, blinking white lights that laughed in a complete mockery at him.