Last/first story of the year.
Title: Paradise
Rating: R
Pairings: Keith/Mick/Brian in various combination; set in Edith Grove.
Word Count: 3,080
Disclaimer: I I owned them, then the Stones would have no sanity left.
So, I had this idea in mind. I know I keep refering to the Edith Grove days, so I decided to write the. And this is the last story of the year. Also, these are in different points of veiw--see if you can guess them.
"This could be
para-para-paradise"
Paradise by Coldplay
Music leaks from the flat, hot and heavy. Guitars mesh, dirty, solid, and you curl your toes inside your new shoes. Sometimes you think about joining them, sometimes you don't; the singer isn't as important as the guitar, so you reason. So you stay.
All the while you sit there, you expect to hear a familiar voice. Maybe Keith'll say, “Oy Mick, do somethin' useful with y'self and come have a listen to what we've got,” through the door. Maybe that's a bad idea because you know you'll become trapped in the music that's created, wedged inside the sequence of notes that you'd forget what Keith asked-and Keith will be looking expectantly at you, trusting you, your opinion somehow mattering more than anyone else's.
You've seen them do it, Brian and Keith, seemingly create songs from open air, and you're sure your opinion isn't that needed. It dances on your chest, filling your entire being, enough to keep you awake at night. You remember James saying he loves it here. He says that often and you can't help but agree. Paradise, he says.
You're in a pressure cooker, a term that Keith is fond of. You have to go to school, you have to go get your degree, but there's something about this music, stubbornly on the rise in the London underground, that tells you to stay and ride it out.
There's a telegram from college: “M. Jagger, please let us know whether you will continue your studies.”
And your mum: “Mike, please think about what you are doing,” but she still sends love.
And dear old Keith: “Mr. Shampoo's out with'is old lad and kid, let's get to it,” a guitar strapped to his chest and hands you a mic, and now you're singing to a sweet tune.
Cotton is on the roof of your mouth and it's too sticky to swallow. It's hotter than you realize as your skin fries like an iron skillet. You peel away your sweater-why do you have on a sweater?--and toss it to the floor. You know it's going to be there later, tomorrow, perhaps a week to a month; it'll smell of dirt and sweat, just like everything else around here. It'll stay, rotting, until Keith's mum comes for her usual visits, picking it up while you and Brian snicker about it.
You lightly doze, letting the music soak through your skin, and you start to fall asleep, the music cradling your soul like a love, the air hot against your face and scratchy against your skin.
The ground is not something you expected to meet. For a moment, you're weightless, you're falling, but you don't scream-it's too late-and the ground hits you with enough force.
Brian is standing over you when you look up, and he's laughing, laughing, and you can't find a reason to be mad at him, so you feign sleepy irritation. A mic is thrust into your face and you look up. Brian is offering it like a condolence and you wordlessly take it.
“C'mon,” and he's suddenly so good-natured, “Keith said to get your scrawny arse in here.”
-
Silverware clanks, plates fall to the floor, shattering, the shards sprinkling along gritty floors. The smell of old foods combine with moldy water that's piled into the sink. Who knows the last time it was emptied.
“Right,” you utter, purposely avoiding the graying water, moving about the field of dishes, moving them carelessly until they find their way to the floor. The floor feels warmer than you remember.
You'd rather stay, rather go through the spoils left inside the non-working fridge. You;re drinking something bitter and colorless-maybe the water's finally spoiled or the sewer's leaking into the tap. You don't care anyway and drop the cup in the sink.
Reaching into your pocket, you've got a packet of smokes and you reach for the table, sitting with them as you think of a signature Chuck tune.
-
Across the table, Mick's eyes are focused on a book. Keith was being generous with his hidden stash of liquor he has. You don't worry, you know where it I and occasionally dip into it.
Why Mick tries to study here, you'll never know. Mick's eyes won't focus and you know he's had too much of Keith's supply. You sort of want what he's had. There's Wolf's voice and the guitar, an influence that sullens the atmosphere.
It's all your influence, you think. Your band, your music, your fucking guitar lines, and you smile. It'll be made into a song one day, enough to rival any bluesman. You drink to this, relishing in this thought.
Linda's leaning over your shoulder, her hand at the base of your neck. “Julian's with mum and dad, so let's,” she says.
You'd forgot that she was even here, forgot you even brought her here.
You know that those two will be at this for a while, nothing will change. They'll be together like always but this thought unsettles you so you stop thinking about it. Though it does have a bitter taste in your mouth. Linda's hand is so convincing against your skin, so you stand up.
You look over your shoulder for a reaction, only finding Mick swaying to an invisible tune. You smirk, and you the word lightweight comes to mind. You continue to watch as Mick and Keith share a look, and it's almost loving and you think you'll be sick all over your shirt. It still bothers you that they're much closer to each other than they are you.
You pull Linda into a lone room and steadily peel away her clothes.
-
Someone's on the phone in the other room, and you're sure it's Mick, and you're perfectly content. Brian's right across from you and he's stringing his guitar. He gazes to where Mick's direction, and scoffs with, “He can't just fuck off whenever there's a crisis.”
You snort. “That's not what it is,” and you feel slightly compelled to defend your friend. You blindly reach to tap your cigarette into the tray-you've missed your opening and now there's ash in your brandy. You shrug and drink it.
Brian tells you, “We're tryin' to work here. He's not Mr. Fucking Society here-we've got a good thing goin' and he keeps fucking back to other places,”-and there's a sharp pluck and Brian curses and restrings his guitar again-, “when we're getting something good going.”
“He's got responsibilities,” you say and you almost scoff when you say that, “and is looking out for himself.”
Brian bites the inside of his mouth and he's about to laugh and comes up with another chord progression. “He's available most of the time,” and you take a drink again.
“Not when it matters most,” Brian says.
You really don't care about this conversation anymore and you'd rather have Chuck telling you something that's worthwhile. You smile-Chuck always has something worthwhile and you recognize him in Brian's guitar. Chuck always makes things better, you think.
You make a face at your drink.
This brandy's gone flat.
-
For such a lumpy couch, it's almost comfortable against your face and body. You're thirsty: too much brandy, cigarettes, and not enough water. There's no screeching hangover against your skull so you shake off the feeling.
How you got here, you don't know nor does it bother you. In time, the dark colors of the window alarms you and you scramble. You need to leave, you have to go-gotta get out of here. Everything is scattered-“Fucking”-and you scramble to gather what you need.
Fuck, you're missing a gig right now. Everything is apart, miles and miles apart, and your eyes won't focus fast enough, your body isn't moving fast enough. Going, going but not gone-you stop in the middle of picking up a shirt.
There's a sting on the bottom of your foot as a piece of broken porcelain (no doubt from careless handling) cut into it. Blood mingles between your big and second toe, and you bend to wipe it away.
Your palms are sweaty and you realize there's no gig tonight. Finally out of your adrenaline state, there's a series of hushed noises coming from the rooms away from you.
It's unintelligible, rising and falling, almost like a song in motion. It isn't any of your business but that's never concerned you; it's your own flat so nothing is off limits.
Brian probably brought home some bird and wasn't being modest about it. You're about to shout out and tell him to shut the fuck up, but you don't. Curiosity has always gotten the better of you.
There's a clatter of glass and bottles, no doubt from the kitchen, forks prattling on the floor. Your bottom lips is caught between your teeth and you almost stop, and there's-Mick's voice now rings in your ears.
You near the kitchen and, “oh fu-Brian,” and you bite your tongue this time, swallowing whatever saliva is left. You come into the kitchen and there's heaviness in your chest.
Mick's voice is singing, shaking, vibrating. Before you locate where in the kitchen, chairs scatter from the table, and you see something fall into them. There's Brian's voice again, and you can see the source. You see Brian push a chair away and it slides across the floor, out of mind.
Mick's on the ground, back arched like some Greek statue, head thrown back and you note how much his hair's grown. He groans and you bite your lip, watching Brian descend over him, hand inside Mick's open trousers. You've ever seen Mick so open, so wanton against something that you find it hard to ingest.
Brian suddenly meets your eyes. He stares at you, hand stilling, Mick's voice groaning again, wet and needy.
This is absurd and suddenly Brian is smirking at you, an expression you know too well. He wants you to say something, you bet. Brian is very deliberate, leaning down to give a kiss on Mick's neck, eyes still locked with yours. His hands are under Mick's thighs and he pulls him close.
Suddenly your appetite does not matter anymore and you leave, suffocated with other conflicting emotions.
-
You feel warm, but you shouldn't, not in this weather. It's like a freezer and winter's raging in full force outside your window. Brian's somewhere, getting gigs or charming chicks out of grocery money. Either way, you've had too much wine and nodding out.
Somewhere along time, you nodded out again-what is with you in nodding out, you think-and you see Keith walking toward you. Your fingers twitch and you want to leave, check in on mum and your studies. But you can't because you want to stay at the same time.
Keith folds himself in a chair across from you, a guitar with him. You're waiting for the day to pass , everything happens in the evening-that's when everyone want to get drunk. Really, who want to get pissed at twelve in the afternoon? That's when everything is ripe for a gig.
“You awake?” Keith asks you, and you want to say yes, but you know Keith is probably looking for someone to play with. You only play maracas, hardly an instrument and an amateur harp. You've had too much to drink and now you're going to be no help to Keith.
“Oy,” Keith says, impatient, snapping his fingers. You look at him and shake your head. He grins at you and says, “You wanna go?” and motions to his guitar. Of course Keith wants to play but you're not up to his level. And besides, you're nearly sagging to the floor because of too much drink.
“Right, so I got an idea, and I think it's good, but I need someone to help out.”
You raise your hand, telling Keith to stop. “But I was sleeping.”
Keith makes a face at you, looking at the clock. “You sleep too much,” and his gaze is on the bottle beside you. “And drink too much.”
You wave him off. “And I was gonna go home for a little while, check the telegrams from LSE-the fuckers have no sympathy for what I might do,” you say, distaste right at the tip of your tongue.
Keith laughs, and shakes his head, watching you stand and nearly tumble. Keith is always more graceful when it comes to this, you decide, and you think you look utterly ridiculous. Keith takes hold of your arm, helping you up and you find it utterly hilarious a you stumble with him.
You both don't quite reach the door and you both trip over something, “oh fuck,” and you realize that's not your voice. The floor is on your back again and you think how many times are you going to fall on it. Keith is sprawled above you and he grits his teeth, hand rubbing at his face. You feel giggles rising in your throat and you hold back.
You're swinging your arms, moving them, trying to push Keith off your body. You keep pushing-and Keith's heavier than he looks-and you keep pushing and you try, but there's no avail. You're hand seems to be in the wrong places and Keith sits up and your hand pushed Keith's from under him and he falls, falls completely on top of you.
There's a silence that falls after and you gaze straight into his eyes, eyes that are rapidly approaching your own. There's a nasty heat building in your face and you need to push him away, need to stop staring at him. This place is almost never empty and you expect Jimmy to come in at any moment, but you can't stop yourself from pushing Keith away anymore.
There's something raw in Keith's eyes and you struggle to find it, but it slips away before you realize. And before you realize again, a pair of lips meet you own and pull away. It's shocking, almost preposterous and Keith is scrambling to sit up.
Laughter bubbles from our throat as this becomes insanely funny. If it weren't for all the brandy you consumed, you would be completely lost.
Keith is staring at you, eyes wide and you can tell that he thinks he did this on accident. Either way, you think nothing of it, taking it as his an affectionate gesture.
-
Keith's back from whatever he's been doing. You roll your eyes and go back to your guitar. You feel like ignoring him but he's persistent about coming into your mind.
You're still upset, him catching you with another bird and not having enough decency to do it in private. The entire mood was ruined when he yelled at you to, “fuck off somewhere else with that. Some of us would like to keep our appetite,” and you wanted to scream back. It's not just Keith's flat.
Birds aren't like what they used to be and you watch as she get suddenly embarrassed and begin to leave.
You can hear someone else instead of Keith and you think about checking it out but the guitar, the guitar is much more important than what Keith's doing. You can hear Jimmy somewhere, and a ringing of the phone and it almost seems too much. You go back to your guitar and you see Keith come out and he's got your guitar and you become irked.
Keith takes a look at you and snickers and you find yourself standing up and Keith jumps, your guitar dropped on the floor. “Fuck, my guitar,” you say.
“Then don't jump up like that and scare people,” Keith fires back. “And what the fuck is your sodding problem?”
“My problem?” you counter. You know this is going to turn into something ugly. It always does, Keith not knowing how to control his temper. It only takes a little amount to rile him up over nothing. You don't want to fan the flames, but Keith's so elegant with his voice, sending you into an alert mode.
“Keep your birds quiet and maybe we wouldn't have to suffer,” he says and you roll your eyes.
“It's my flat, too,” you say, not in the mood. Your attention is on your dropped guitar and Keith becomes irritated that you won't pay attention to him. Small things always got on the other boy's nerves. “And that means I can use it how I see want.”
“The hell you can,” Keith says and he's now in front of you. You never meant to answer him back, but you always had a quick mouth, much quicker than your brain. “Then sod off if you don't like it.”
There's a hand on your collar as Keith tried to pull you close. “You don't listen, don't need too, and yo shove him away. Now you're pulling and kicking at the other boy, now currently locked in another pointless battle. Keith curses and you snarl back, and now you're both on the floor. There's a hand buried in your hair and your own on Keith's throat.
Something in this feels peculiar and you can sense that there's another energy at work. There's tension between you two and it's not the kind that you would want. Something feels primal about this before you know it, Keith yanks on your hair ad you angle your head but it's too late.
Both of your lips meet and you don't know what to think. Keith is still fighting back and his tongue meets your lips. You can't pull away and your natural instinct was to open your mouth. Your mouth has always been quicker and your brain cannot get in a word as you and Keith lock mouths, fighting, pushing, pulling, until nothing's left.
“Fuckers,” you hear and it's not Keith either.
Mick is standing away, his eyes narrowed. “Do that somewhere else, not on the floor.”
The pressure on your chest ceases as Keith scrambles up. You feel cut off but scoff as Keith turns to you and throws you a silent insult. As Keith leaves, you utter something that sounds like, “well, fuck you too, mate,” but you can't decide because you;re in a fog.
You can't believe that you're still living with that pretentious fuck.
Rating: R
Pairings: Keith/Mick/Brian in various combination; set in Edith Grove.
Word Count: 3,080
Disclaimer: I I owned them, then the Stones would have no sanity left.
So, I had this idea in mind. I know I keep refering to the Edith Grove days, so I decided to write the. And this is the last story of the year. Also, these are in different points of veiw--see if you can guess them.
"This could be
para-para-paradise"
Paradise by Coldplay
Music leaks from the flat, hot and heavy. Guitars mesh, dirty, solid, and you curl your toes inside your new shoes. Sometimes you think about joining them, sometimes you don't; the singer isn't as important as the guitar, so you reason. So you stay.
All the while you sit there, you expect to hear a familiar voice. Maybe Keith'll say, “Oy Mick, do somethin' useful with y'self and come have a listen to what we've got,” through the door. Maybe that's a bad idea because you know you'll become trapped in the music that's created, wedged inside the sequence of notes that you'd forget what Keith asked-and Keith will be looking expectantly at you, trusting you, your opinion somehow mattering more than anyone else's.
You've seen them do it, Brian and Keith, seemingly create songs from open air, and you're sure your opinion isn't that needed. It dances on your chest, filling your entire being, enough to keep you awake at night. You remember James saying he loves it here. He says that often and you can't help but agree. Paradise, he says.
You're in a pressure cooker, a term that Keith is fond of. You have to go to school, you have to go get your degree, but there's something about this music, stubbornly on the rise in the London underground, that tells you to stay and ride it out.
There's a telegram from college: “M. Jagger, please let us know whether you will continue your studies.”
And your mum: “Mike, please think about what you are doing,” but she still sends love.
And dear old Keith: “Mr. Shampoo's out with'is old lad and kid, let's get to it,” a guitar strapped to his chest and hands you a mic, and now you're singing to a sweet tune.
Cotton is on the roof of your mouth and it's too sticky to swallow. It's hotter than you realize as your skin fries like an iron skillet. You peel away your sweater-why do you have on a sweater?--and toss it to the floor. You know it's going to be there later, tomorrow, perhaps a week to a month; it'll smell of dirt and sweat, just like everything else around here. It'll stay, rotting, until Keith's mum comes for her usual visits, picking it up while you and Brian snicker about it.
You lightly doze, letting the music soak through your skin, and you start to fall asleep, the music cradling your soul like a love, the air hot against your face and scratchy against your skin.
The ground is not something you expected to meet. For a moment, you're weightless, you're falling, but you don't scream-it's too late-and the ground hits you with enough force.
Brian is standing over you when you look up, and he's laughing, laughing, and you can't find a reason to be mad at him, so you feign sleepy irritation. A mic is thrust into your face and you look up. Brian is offering it like a condolence and you wordlessly take it.
“C'mon,” and he's suddenly so good-natured, “Keith said to get your scrawny arse in here.”
-
Silverware clanks, plates fall to the floor, shattering, the shards sprinkling along gritty floors. The smell of old foods combine with moldy water that's piled into the sink. Who knows the last time it was emptied.
“Right,” you utter, purposely avoiding the graying water, moving about the field of dishes, moving them carelessly until they find their way to the floor. The floor feels warmer than you remember.
You'd rather stay, rather go through the spoils left inside the non-working fridge. You;re drinking something bitter and colorless-maybe the water's finally spoiled or the sewer's leaking into the tap. You don't care anyway and drop the cup in the sink.
Reaching into your pocket, you've got a packet of smokes and you reach for the table, sitting with them as you think of a signature Chuck tune.
-
Across the table, Mick's eyes are focused on a book. Keith was being generous with his hidden stash of liquor he has. You don't worry, you know where it I and occasionally dip into it.
Why Mick tries to study here, you'll never know. Mick's eyes won't focus and you know he's had too much of Keith's supply. You sort of want what he's had. There's Wolf's voice and the guitar, an influence that sullens the atmosphere.
It's all your influence, you think. Your band, your music, your fucking guitar lines, and you smile. It'll be made into a song one day, enough to rival any bluesman. You drink to this, relishing in this thought.
Linda's leaning over your shoulder, her hand at the base of your neck. “Julian's with mum and dad, so let's,” she says.
You'd forgot that she was even here, forgot you even brought her here.
You know that those two will be at this for a while, nothing will change. They'll be together like always but this thought unsettles you so you stop thinking about it. Though it does have a bitter taste in your mouth. Linda's hand is so convincing against your skin, so you stand up.
You look over your shoulder for a reaction, only finding Mick swaying to an invisible tune. You smirk, and you the word lightweight comes to mind. You continue to watch as Mick and Keith share a look, and it's almost loving and you think you'll be sick all over your shirt. It still bothers you that they're much closer to each other than they are you.
You pull Linda into a lone room and steadily peel away her clothes.
-
Someone's on the phone in the other room, and you're sure it's Mick, and you're perfectly content. Brian's right across from you and he's stringing his guitar. He gazes to where Mick's direction, and scoffs with, “He can't just fuck off whenever there's a crisis.”
You snort. “That's not what it is,” and you feel slightly compelled to defend your friend. You blindly reach to tap your cigarette into the tray-you've missed your opening and now there's ash in your brandy. You shrug and drink it.
Brian tells you, “We're tryin' to work here. He's not Mr. Fucking Society here-we've got a good thing goin' and he keeps fucking back to other places,”-and there's a sharp pluck and Brian curses and restrings his guitar again-, “when we're getting something good going.”
“He's got responsibilities,” you say and you almost scoff when you say that, “and is looking out for himself.”
Brian bites the inside of his mouth and he's about to laugh and comes up with another chord progression. “He's available most of the time,” and you take a drink again.
“Not when it matters most,” Brian says.
You really don't care about this conversation anymore and you'd rather have Chuck telling you something that's worthwhile. You smile-Chuck always has something worthwhile and you recognize him in Brian's guitar. Chuck always makes things better, you think.
You make a face at your drink.
This brandy's gone flat.
-
For such a lumpy couch, it's almost comfortable against your face and body. You're thirsty: too much brandy, cigarettes, and not enough water. There's no screeching hangover against your skull so you shake off the feeling.
How you got here, you don't know nor does it bother you. In time, the dark colors of the window alarms you and you scramble. You need to leave, you have to go-gotta get out of here. Everything is scattered-“Fucking”-and you scramble to gather what you need.
Fuck, you're missing a gig right now. Everything is apart, miles and miles apart, and your eyes won't focus fast enough, your body isn't moving fast enough. Going, going but not gone-you stop in the middle of picking up a shirt.
There's a sting on the bottom of your foot as a piece of broken porcelain (no doubt from careless handling) cut into it. Blood mingles between your big and second toe, and you bend to wipe it away.
Your palms are sweaty and you realize there's no gig tonight. Finally out of your adrenaline state, there's a series of hushed noises coming from the rooms away from you.
It's unintelligible, rising and falling, almost like a song in motion. It isn't any of your business but that's never concerned you; it's your own flat so nothing is off limits.
Brian probably brought home some bird and wasn't being modest about it. You're about to shout out and tell him to shut the fuck up, but you don't. Curiosity has always gotten the better of you.
There's a clatter of glass and bottles, no doubt from the kitchen, forks prattling on the floor. Your bottom lips is caught between your teeth and you almost stop, and there's-Mick's voice now rings in your ears.
You near the kitchen and, “oh fu-Brian,” and you bite your tongue this time, swallowing whatever saliva is left. You come into the kitchen and there's heaviness in your chest.
Mick's voice is singing, shaking, vibrating. Before you locate where in the kitchen, chairs scatter from the table, and you see something fall into them. There's Brian's voice again, and you can see the source. You see Brian push a chair away and it slides across the floor, out of mind.
Mick's on the ground, back arched like some Greek statue, head thrown back and you note how much his hair's grown. He groans and you bite your lip, watching Brian descend over him, hand inside Mick's open trousers. You've ever seen Mick so open, so wanton against something that you find it hard to ingest.
Brian suddenly meets your eyes. He stares at you, hand stilling, Mick's voice groaning again, wet and needy.
This is absurd and suddenly Brian is smirking at you, an expression you know too well. He wants you to say something, you bet. Brian is very deliberate, leaning down to give a kiss on Mick's neck, eyes still locked with yours. His hands are under Mick's thighs and he pulls him close.
Suddenly your appetite does not matter anymore and you leave, suffocated with other conflicting emotions.
-
You feel warm, but you shouldn't, not in this weather. It's like a freezer and winter's raging in full force outside your window. Brian's somewhere, getting gigs or charming chicks out of grocery money. Either way, you've had too much wine and nodding out.
Somewhere along time, you nodded out again-what is with you in nodding out, you think-and you see Keith walking toward you. Your fingers twitch and you want to leave, check in on mum and your studies. But you can't because you want to stay at the same time.
Keith folds himself in a chair across from you, a guitar with him. You're waiting for the day to pass , everything happens in the evening-that's when everyone want to get drunk. Really, who want to get pissed at twelve in the afternoon? That's when everything is ripe for a gig.
“You awake?” Keith asks you, and you want to say yes, but you know Keith is probably looking for someone to play with. You only play maracas, hardly an instrument and an amateur harp. You've had too much to drink and now you're going to be no help to Keith.
“Oy,” Keith says, impatient, snapping his fingers. You look at him and shake your head. He grins at you and says, “You wanna go?” and motions to his guitar. Of course Keith wants to play but you're not up to his level. And besides, you're nearly sagging to the floor because of too much drink.
“Right, so I got an idea, and I think it's good, but I need someone to help out.”
You raise your hand, telling Keith to stop. “But I was sleeping.”
Keith makes a face at you, looking at the clock. “You sleep too much,” and his gaze is on the bottle beside you. “And drink too much.”
You wave him off. “And I was gonna go home for a little while, check the telegrams from LSE-the fuckers have no sympathy for what I might do,” you say, distaste right at the tip of your tongue.
Keith laughs, and shakes his head, watching you stand and nearly tumble. Keith is always more graceful when it comes to this, you decide, and you think you look utterly ridiculous. Keith takes hold of your arm, helping you up and you find it utterly hilarious a you stumble with him.
You both don't quite reach the door and you both trip over something, “oh fuck,” and you realize that's not your voice. The floor is on your back again and you think how many times are you going to fall on it. Keith is sprawled above you and he grits his teeth, hand rubbing at his face. You feel giggles rising in your throat and you hold back.
You're swinging your arms, moving them, trying to push Keith off your body. You keep pushing-and Keith's heavier than he looks-and you keep pushing and you try, but there's no avail. You're hand seems to be in the wrong places and Keith sits up and your hand pushed Keith's from under him and he falls, falls completely on top of you.
There's a silence that falls after and you gaze straight into his eyes, eyes that are rapidly approaching your own. There's a nasty heat building in your face and you need to push him away, need to stop staring at him. This place is almost never empty and you expect Jimmy to come in at any moment, but you can't stop yourself from pushing Keith away anymore.
There's something raw in Keith's eyes and you struggle to find it, but it slips away before you realize. And before you realize again, a pair of lips meet you own and pull away. It's shocking, almost preposterous and Keith is scrambling to sit up.
Laughter bubbles from our throat as this becomes insanely funny. If it weren't for all the brandy you consumed, you would be completely lost.
Keith is staring at you, eyes wide and you can tell that he thinks he did this on accident. Either way, you think nothing of it, taking it as his an affectionate gesture.
-
Keith's back from whatever he's been doing. You roll your eyes and go back to your guitar. You feel like ignoring him but he's persistent about coming into your mind.
You're still upset, him catching you with another bird and not having enough decency to do it in private. The entire mood was ruined when he yelled at you to, “fuck off somewhere else with that. Some of us would like to keep our appetite,” and you wanted to scream back. It's not just Keith's flat.
Birds aren't like what they used to be and you watch as she get suddenly embarrassed and begin to leave.
You can hear someone else instead of Keith and you think about checking it out but the guitar, the guitar is much more important than what Keith's doing. You can hear Jimmy somewhere, and a ringing of the phone and it almost seems too much. You go back to your guitar and you see Keith come out and he's got your guitar and you become irked.
Keith takes a look at you and snickers and you find yourself standing up and Keith jumps, your guitar dropped on the floor. “Fuck, my guitar,” you say.
“Then don't jump up like that and scare people,” Keith fires back. “And what the fuck is your sodding problem?”
“My problem?” you counter. You know this is going to turn into something ugly. It always does, Keith not knowing how to control his temper. It only takes a little amount to rile him up over nothing. You don't want to fan the flames, but Keith's so elegant with his voice, sending you into an alert mode.
“Keep your birds quiet and maybe we wouldn't have to suffer,” he says and you roll your eyes.
“It's my flat, too,” you say, not in the mood. Your attention is on your dropped guitar and Keith becomes irritated that you won't pay attention to him. Small things always got on the other boy's nerves. “And that means I can use it how I see want.”
“The hell you can,” Keith says and he's now in front of you. You never meant to answer him back, but you always had a quick mouth, much quicker than your brain. “Then sod off if you don't like it.”
There's a hand on your collar as Keith tried to pull you close. “You don't listen, don't need too, and yo shove him away. Now you're pulling and kicking at the other boy, now currently locked in another pointless battle. Keith curses and you snarl back, and now you're both on the floor. There's a hand buried in your hair and your own on Keith's throat.
Something in this feels peculiar and you can sense that there's another energy at work. There's tension between you two and it's not the kind that you would want. Something feels primal about this before you know it, Keith yanks on your hair ad you angle your head but it's too late.
Both of your lips meet and you don't know what to think. Keith is still fighting back and his tongue meets your lips. You can't pull away and your natural instinct was to open your mouth. Your mouth has always been quicker and your brain cannot get in a word as you and Keith lock mouths, fighting, pushing, pulling, until nothing's left.
“Fuckers,” you hear and it's not Keith either.
Mick is standing away, his eyes narrowed. “Do that somewhere else, not on the floor.”
The pressure on your chest ceases as Keith scrambles up. You feel cut off but scoff as Keith turns to you and throws you a silent insult. As Keith leaves, you utter something that sounds like, “well, fuck you too, mate,” but you can't decide because you;re in a fog.
You can't believe that you're still living with that pretentious fuck.