Slowly do I increase the size of chapters.
Title: A Bottle of Red and Fuck You (3/?)
Rating: R--bunch of language here, and alcohol.
Pairings: Keith/Mick/Brian in various combinations, possible others
Word Count: 1,1813--I will slowly make them increase in word count each chapter.
Disclaimer: Really? Do you think this is true? Didn't think so.
Summary: Mick thought he had everything figured out--a bottle of alcohol solves everything. Alternatively, blow your college tuition of alcohol, leave college, fuck off to London, and meet that stranger guy everywhere from the lift, while everyone is a right douchebag.
You know when you have that feeling that something is out there conspiring against you?
Mick had that feeling. Maybe something was upset that he left LSE and is now making bad decisions.
It's Saturday and Mick felt like he was in literary heaven-Foyle's Bookshop was five stories high and had an overwhelming amount of books. He's on his way out the door, small stack of books in hand, reading and should probably be watching where he's going.
It's the middle of May, no sudden cold snaps that can sneak up unnoticed. The locals are in shorter clothing to fit the weather.
The views are very lovely, Mick intending to make the most of it.
There's a small crash somewhere, “fucking piece of junk,” and it's vaguely familiar.
Mick graces a glance and there's that man from the lift who bartended a few nights ago. He's standing on the corner, staring at a bike, kicking, tapping, nudging and scowling-he's not sure, though, still having those hipster-esque sunglasses, that crow hair still being everywhere.
Mick decides to say hello, a legitimate reason why he should get the other's attention, and not, he tells himself, because he wants to ogle the person in front of him and he definitely wants to not come off creepy.
Keith spots him, grins with his teeth-and oh Christ, those teeth are even more horrendous in the daylight, oh god-, flags him down, and it's a perfect opportunity for the plush-mouthed boy to get up closer.
Mick can't figure out the best way to say something, because it's hard when you have a large amount of drool in your mouth at the person in front of you, and lamely settles on, “hullo.”
Keith casually answers back, leans down to unstrap a small amount of books strapped to his bike. He watches as Keith stands up and, “isn't is a little early for you to go bartend?”
There's that shrug and Keith doesn't elaborate. He's walking into the bookshop and Mick feels he should be slightly alarmed. He strides after him, and a has a legitimate reason why: the book he was reading is so tragically depressing and has more plot holes than China did kids. Yeah, he needs to return it, not follow bartenders he meets at three in the morning.
With a detached expression, he watches Keith stride inside, go behind a counter and shoves the books onto a book cart. A strange expression wears onto the mahogany-haired boy's face, “I thought you were a bartender?”
Again with the shrug, “I work here.”
Wait, “you do?”
Keith moves the book cart and, “that was because I was bored-extra bread doesn't hurt.”
“... you were bored?” comes Mick's voice so deadpanned.
“Free brandy also.”
“So you were freeloading,” and it's much more of a statement.
A shrug-'why does he shrug so damn much?'-and, “depends on who's answering.”
Mick really can't place where to find the next conversation to keep them talking to each other. He can't really ask Keith about books, there's always an indifferent movement of his shoulders, a mere, “that sounds great,” when Mick asks if this book is worth reading.
There's a saving grace: he locates a book with Chuck Berry's name on it, and in fact Keith has a load of Chuck Berry books on his cart. “You like Chuck Berry, I suppose?”
Keith nods in agreement. “That cat was far ahead of his time, and a shame people don't see it.”
Mick nods. “He's great, but nothing like Little Richard, bless his pompadoured heart.”
There's some common ground between the two, discussing a love for music that's decades ahead of their time. Mick thinks how much this sounds like a hipster's direction: obviously disinterested in anything modern and into vinyl, and crazy colors and all kind of psychedelic things that Mick was thankful for going out of fashion long ago.
“And that, Keith, is why Little Richard is the father of all rock. Never was taken much by Elvis, but Richard did it first and better,” and Mick is grinning from ear to ear. Keith mirrors back, and Mick is still not sure if he'll be able to get used to those teeth.
“Whatever you believe,” and Keith pats him on the shoulder. “And if you don't mind, I've got to check in before the boss,” his face curls, “fires me.”
“Okay,” and that was such an anticlimactic way to end a conversation. He's never been one to end conversations, and awkwardly stands there.
-
Mick gets a call from from Charlie, so it must be important because it's probably illogically late in New York-Charlie always said that the jazz scene in New York was so very exquisite. It wasn't a surprise when he said he's going to vacation there a few months ago. Shirley, Charlie's steady wife of the past few years, always called Mick, of all people to bother, for Charlie's number, seeing that she always, Mick suspects conveniently, forgot what it was.
He wanted to know how Mick was doing, thinking of coming back from New York, possibly visiting him. Mick knows he'll have to tell Charlie about his... decisions lately, dropping from LSE and going on a trip of booze, takeout every night, and possibly getting into another man's pants he's just barely met a week ago.
All because of she-who-must-not-be-named-or-mentioned-anymore.
Or at least it's very convenient to blame it on.
Charlie will be very disappointed, but that's the appeal of bad decisions.
-
Mick happened to have a flat near the pool behind the apartment building. For a much more expensive flat he figured it was compensation: there was an undeniable view of people in their swimming suites that he, unashamedly, enjoyed.
Mick grabs a pack Lambert and Butler, realizes there's only one, curses, but still heads out to the pool. He's looking to clear his mind, imagining the scorn Charlie will give him for dropping LSE and his career.
To be fair, Mick did not expect an almost naked man to be lounging by the pool. He's distracted by this to really question why he's meeting Keith everywhere he goes. He tries hard to not let his thoughts slip away.
-
He fails. Horribly.
Damn Keith and his almost-naked body.
-
He clears his throat, “how did you get out here?”
Keith arches an eyebrow, “I walked?”
Mick frowned, “but how? Do you even live here?” He steps out onto the area surrounding the pool, avoiding patio chairs and tables, making his way to Keith's position.
“Or are you freeloading again?” Keith doesn't look like he'll dignify that answer, only giving a shrug-his shoulder looks so perfectly tanned-and returning to lounge on a patio chair. Mick doesn't feel like arguing that it's particularly wrong to do that, and it's giving the owners the exact reason why they have people pay to come here. He's not going to kick Keith, though he's never kicked anyone out before.
He settles for sitting beside Keith, and awkward nearly describes his situation, if he wasn't a complete stranger. He wants to start some conversation because how can he look at Keith with no reason at all? Subtlety has never been his forte. He does not want to embarrass himself.
He's set his packet of cigarettes onto the table beside him that's separating him and Keith, notices Keith casually reaching for one and making a face at the brand. “You couldn’t have any Marlboros?”
“And you couldn’t pay to come here?”
Keith gives him a deadpanned, are we really going to go through this again? look but he brushes it off. He takes Mick's smokes anyway, no more qualms about what he considered to be, “a real shitty brand.” Mick notices that he's helped himself to most of his, “shitty brand,”cigarettes.
He wants to say something, wants to stop the rooster-haired boy from stealing all of his cigarettes, but damn, does he have to be so gorgeous for doing so. Instead, he casually, as possible, picked up the packet before anymore could stolen.
He feels really guilty since the view was now lost.
“Well,” Keith is up from his seat, stretching his arms and by god Mick does his best not to stare, “I should get going-kind of forgot the boss wants me in at a certain time-'m runnin' out of excuses not showing up on time.”
He turns to Mick and nods, “and don't stay out too long-fair-skinned people turn into a Valentine's Day car personified.” Mick blinked: not exactly the farewell he was expecting.
Mick can only stare as the other strides out of sight. He feels as though he's just witnessed something, something that is going to no, no doubt, haunt him or be the death of him. If that comes true, then it will be a sweet death.
-
Well.
Shit.
-
He really needs to work on that.
-
Mick figured himself to be a really good flirt. He knew what buttons to push, what he wanted and how to get what he wanted from other people. A flick of the wrist, bat the eyelashes and game over was flashing over the other's head.
This time, it's not the same. You see, Mick's never flirted with someone he was immensely attracted to, a small glance of that oh so tanned skin and he was putty.
Keith was a mystery. He's so unassuming in what he does, so very nonchalant, it's hard not knowing what to say, what its affect would be, those sunglasses blocking emotions from his own eyes.
-
It's been hell on Mick's progress.
-
By now, Mick should be used to seeing Keith pop up randomly through his days. It's not unexpected anymore, but it's very pleasant.
Mick idly sits in an outdoor cafe, thumbing through a tour pamphlet when Keith neatly sits down in front of him. Without looking up, Mick curiously asks, “are you stalking me?”
“Does it count if I work this shift?”
This gives a moment to look at Keith, again, wearing those sunglasses. But this time, their placed neatly in his not-so-neatly hair. Keith has brown eyes.
Mick notes this like he's discovered treasure.
“You're just fucking everywhere, aren't you?”
Keith shrugs his shoulders. “Shift's halfway over, I'll be out of here-and gotta pick up a pellet gun,” and Mick is curious enough to ask him why.
“Neighbors got an annoying cat that shreds on my screen door. Gotta teach it who the fucking boss is.”
Mick hums in acknowledgment before he's coughing on his own spit when, “want to go somewhere? It's a fucking drag to go back to my flat this early.”
Rating: R--bunch of language here, and alcohol.
Pairings: Keith/Mick/Brian in various combinations, possible others
Word Count: 1,1813--I will slowly make them increase in word count each chapter.
Disclaimer: Really? Do you think this is true? Didn't think so.
Summary: Mick thought he had everything figured out--a bottle of alcohol solves everything. Alternatively, blow your college tuition of alcohol, leave college, fuck off to London, and meet that stranger guy everywhere from the lift, while everyone is a right douchebag.
You know when you have that feeling that something is out there conspiring against you?
Mick had that feeling. Maybe something was upset that he left LSE and is now making bad decisions.
It's Saturday and Mick felt like he was in literary heaven-Foyle's Bookshop was five stories high and had an overwhelming amount of books. He's on his way out the door, small stack of books in hand, reading and should probably be watching where he's going.
It's the middle of May, no sudden cold snaps that can sneak up unnoticed. The locals are in shorter clothing to fit the weather.
The views are very lovely, Mick intending to make the most of it.
There's a small crash somewhere, “fucking piece of junk,” and it's vaguely familiar.
Mick graces a glance and there's that man from the lift who bartended a few nights ago. He's standing on the corner, staring at a bike, kicking, tapping, nudging and scowling-he's not sure, though, still having those hipster-esque sunglasses, that crow hair still being everywhere.
Mick decides to say hello, a legitimate reason why he should get the other's attention, and not, he tells himself, because he wants to ogle the person in front of him and he definitely wants to not come off creepy.
Keith spots him, grins with his teeth-and oh Christ, those teeth are even more horrendous in the daylight, oh god-, flags him down, and it's a perfect opportunity for the plush-mouthed boy to get up closer.
Mick can't figure out the best way to say something, because it's hard when you have a large amount of drool in your mouth at the person in front of you, and lamely settles on, “hullo.”
Keith casually answers back, leans down to unstrap a small amount of books strapped to his bike. He watches as Keith stands up and, “isn't is a little early for you to go bartend?”
There's that shrug and Keith doesn't elaborate. He's walking into the bookshop and Mick feels he should be slightly alarmed. He strides after him, and a has a legitimate reason why: the book he was reading is so tragically depressing and has more plot holes than China did kids. Yeah, he needs to return it, not follow bartenders he meets at three in the morning.
With a detached expression, he watches Keith stride inside, go behind a counter and shoves the books onto a book cart. A strange expression wears onto the mahogany-haired boy's face, “I thought you were a bartender?”
Again with the shrug, “I work here.”
Wait, “you do?”
Keith moves the book cart and, “that was because I was bored-extra bread doesn't hurt.”
“... you were bored?” comes Mick's voice so deadpanned.
“Free brandy also.”
“So you were freeloading,” and it's much more of a statement.
A shrug-'why does he shrug so damn much?'-and, “depends on who's answering.”
Mick really can't place where to find the next conversation to keep them talking to each other. He can't really ask Keith about books, there's always an indifferent movement of his shoulders, a mere, “that sounds great,” when Mick asks if this book is worth reading.
There's a saving grace: he locates a book with Chuck Berry's name on it, and in fact Keith has a load of Chuck Berry books on his cart. “You like Chuck Berry, I suppose?”
Keith nods in agreement. “That cat was far ahead of his time, and a shame people don't see it.”
Mick nods. “He's great, but nothing like Little Richard, bless his pompadoured heart.”
There's some common ground between the two, discussing a love for music that's decades ahead of their time. Mick thinks how much this sounds like a hipster's direction: obviously disinterested in anything modern and into vinyl, and crazy colors and all kind of psychedelic things that Mick was thankful for going out of fashion long ago.
“And that, Keith, is why Little Richard is the father of all rock. Never was taken much by Elvis, but Richard did it first and better,” and Mick is grinning from ear to ear. Keith mirrors back, and Mick is still not sure if he'll be able to get used to those teeth.
“Whatever you believe,” and Keith pats him on the shoulder. “And if you don't mind, I've got to check in before the boss,” his face curls, “fires me.”
“Okay,” and that was such an anticlimactic way to end a conversation. He's never been one to end conversations, and awkwardly stands there.
-
Mick gets a call from from Charlie, so it must be important because it's probably illogically late in New York-Charlie always said that the jazz scene in New York was so very exquisite. It wasn't a surprise when he said he's going to vacation there a few months ago. Shirley, Charlie's steady wife of the past few years, always called Mick, of all people to bother, for Charlie's number, seeing that she always, Mick suspects conveniently, forgot what it was.
He wanted to know how Mick was doing, thinking of coming back from New York, possibly visiting him. Mick knows he'll have to tell Charlie about his... decisions lately, dropping from LSE and going on a trip of booze, takeout every night, and possibly getting into another man's pants he's just barely met a week ago.
All because of she-who-must-not-be-named-or-mentioned-anymore.
Or at least it's very convenient to blame it on.
Charlie will be very disappointed, but that's the appeal of bad decisions.
-
Mick happened to have a flat near the pool behind the apartment building. For a much more expensive flat he figured it was compensation: there was an undeniable view of people in their swimming suites that he, unashamedly, enjoyed.
Mick grabs a pack Lambert and Butler, realizes there's only one, curses, but still heads out to the pool. He's looking to clear his mind, imagining the scorn Charlie will give him for dropping LSE and his career.
To be fair, Mick did not expect an almost naked man to be lounging by the pool. He's distracted by this to really question why he's meeting Keith everywhere he goes. He tries hard to not let his thoughts slip away.
-
He fails. Horribly.
Damn Keith and his almost-naked body.
-
He clears his throat, “how did you get out here?”
Keith arches an eyebrow, “I walked?”
Mick frowned, “but how? Do you even live here?” He steps out onto the area surrounding the pool, avoiding patio chairs and tables, making his way to Keith's position.
“Or are you freeloading again?” Keith doesn't look like he'll dignify that answer, only giving a shrug-his shoulder looks so perfectly tanned-and returning to lounge on a patio chair. Mick doesn't feel like arguing that it's particularly wrong to do that, and it's giving the owners the exact reason why they have people pay to come here. He's not going to kick Keith, though he's never kicked anyone out before.
He settles for sitting beside Keith, and awkward nearly describes his situation, if he wasn't a complete stranger. He wants to start some conversation because how can he look at Keith with no reason at all? Subtlety has never been his forte. He does not want to embarrass himself.
He's set his packet of cigarettes onto the table beside him that's separating him and Keith, notices Keith casually reaching for one and making a face at the brand. “You couldn’t have any Marlboros?”
“And you couldn’t pay to come here?”
Keith gives him a deadpanned, are we really going to go through this again? look but he brushes it off. He takes Mick's smokes anyway, no more qualms about what he considered to be, “a real shitty brand.” Mick notices that he's helped himself to most of his, “shitty brand,”cigarettes.
He wants to say something, wants to stop the rooster-haired boy from stealing all of his cigarettes, but damn, does he have to be so gorgeous for doing so. Instead, he casually, as possible, picked up the packet before anymore could stolen.
He feels really guilty since the view was now lost.
“Well,” Keith is up from his seat, stretching his arms and by god Mick does his best not to stare, “I should get going-kind of forgot the boss wants me in at a certain time-'m runnin' out of excuses not showing up on time.”
He turns to Mick and nods, “and don't stay out too long-fair-skinned people turn into a Valentine's Day car personified.” Mick blinked: not exactly the farewell he was expecting.
Mick can only stare as the other strides out of sight. He feels as though he's just witnessed something, something that is going to no, no doubt, haunt him or be the death of him. If that comes true, then it will be a sweet death.
-
Well.
Shit.
-
He really needs to work on that.
-
Mick figured himself to be a really good flirt. He knew what buttons to push, what he wanted and how to get what he wanted from other people. A flick of the wrist, bat the eyelashes and game over was flashing over the other's head.
This time, it's not the same. You see, Mick's never flirted with someone he was immensely attracted to, a small glance of that oh so tanned skin and he was putty.
Keith was a mystery. He's so unassuming in what he does, so very nonchalant, it's hard not knowing what to say, what its affect would be, those sunglasses blocking emotions from his own eyes.
-
It's been hell on Mick's progress.
-
By now, Mick should be used to seeing Keith pop up randomly through his days. It's not unexpected anymore, but it's very pleasant.
Mick idly sits in an outdoor cafe, thumbing through a tour pamphlet when Keith neatly sits down in front of him. Without looking up, Mick curiously asks, “are you stalking me?”
“Does it count if I work this shift?”
This gives a moment to look at Keith, again, wearing those sunglasses. But this time, their placed neatly in his not-so-neatly hair. Keith has brown eyes.
Mick notes this like he's discovered treasure.
“You're just fucking everywhere, aren't you?”
Keith shrugs his shoulders. “Shift's halfway over, I'll be out of here-and gotta pick up a pellet gun,” and Mick is curious enough to ask him why.
“Neighbors got an annoying cat that shreds on my screen door. Gotta teach it who the fucking boss is.”
Mick hums in acknowledgment before he's coughing on his own spit when, “want to go somewhere? It's a fucking drag to go back to my flat this early.”