Guernica
Title: Guernica
Pairing: Angus/Bon
Rating: R for sex.
Disclaimer: This work is entirely fictional and meant for the reader's own enjoyment.
Notes: I promised y'all a Dirty Deeds fanfic. BELIEVE ME, IT'S IN THE WORKS. 8D For now, here is a disgustingly sweet ficlet thing I knocked out for you at 3am, when sleep is not my friend. You're all fantastic writers, by the way. ♥ I'd love to write with someone. But aside from that jazz, here you go with my latest story. 8D
Summary: Angus thinks about Bon all the time.
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I think about him. I think about him all the time. Bon isn't a person anymore. Bon is a memory. Bon is a red-hot poker. He's burned into my brain, engraved and carved throughout my bloodstream and every little piece of me that remains. Fixing every bone that breaks, keeping me alive, keeping me steady. A haemorrhage that's too fast for me to find, seeping through every vein and every artery, bruising my heart a shocking scarlet. It's an infection, contaminating cells and spawning thousands of carbon copies that scream Bon Bon Bon Bon Bon. Compressing me to a dull ache. But it's comforting. I like it.
I was so viciously high on something I had never tried. Thrills of electrifiying euphoria, coming in short, intense bursts. His lips on my lips, hands on my skin, cock inside of me, uniting us, the distant roar of the Australian ocean mimicking the rush of blood in my thudding heart. Lost in the waves of pleasure, losing myself, losing the night until it's only us left.
Tormenting, teasing sex.
I felt every move.
All surrounding pleasure, a consuming throb taking root in the pit of my stomach and blossoming like a flower until I was drowning in it. Overflowing in a flood of lust, the wails bubbling from my lips until he swallowed them with his own, a venomous shock that could have stopped my heart.
Just the thought of it makes my heart flutter and my stomach tense, the same way it did when we climaxed together - no, began to climax. Sometimes, I wish my heart would stop.
His smile, his laugh. How he spoke to me. How I was the shy little guy in a school uniform. How I'd change from that daft little bugger into a smoking hot, passionate Sex God. How no power ballad could compare to the sounds we shared, ascending together in a perfect coloratura, crystalline in the upper reaches.
I think about Bon all the time.
I think about the fun times. I think about how we held each other, how I would stare up at those eyes. Those bloodshot, Scottish eyes that kept me going. The passion in those electric azure orbs was like nothing I had ever witnessed. The sweaty, worn microphone didn't need to be in Bon's hand for that passion to be released through velvet lips. I've seen that passion on all kinds of surfaces. Including my bed, and Brian's coffee table.
I always smile and chuckle to myself when I remember that one.
In the darkness, I saw those eyes. Assuring me I was alive, I was there, I was his, I was loved. I was curled up in his arms, his chin resting on my head. Long, lithe arms snaking round my body. Bon and cuddling never seemed to mix, but there was a different side to him. A quieter, more sensitive side. He never knew that he often fell asleep before I did, and I would just look at him. Appreciate the beauty, the love I couldn't say through words. The rough face, the mischevious mouth, the sometimes rosy cheeks that melted my heart.
But he'll never know now.
And I still think about Bon all the time.
I think about him on stage. I think about him when I take a solitary moment to myself during playing, when my eyes are closed, I'm not impersonating Chuck Berry, nor am I bobbing my head, even slightly. Standing there, being Angus Young. Angus. Baby. Sweetheart. Little McKinnon. Daft little bugger. Instead of being supreme Guitar God with no age, Sex God, Problem Child, Live Wire. I try to leave the problem child behind, forget about the past, and live in the present. But the wind cries his name in the fans, it's in their screams, their sweat, the devil horns upon their head, the thumbs entangled in their hair. Trying so hard to be individual not from the world, but from everybody else at the gig. A simultaneous blend of reds and blues and all colours. Together. One. He's in the air, he is the clouds, he is the sky. He is the Phantom of the Stage, cloaked in denim, booze, sex, jumping around on Rosie before taking a ride in the Rock n' Roll Train.
No one can see him.
But I can feel him.
I feel him at night. When I'm holding a body close to me that isn't his. It's too feminine, too slender to be his. He was rough and worn and masculine. She's soft to the touch, beautiful to look at. Words won't say my love for her, my heartbeat whispers her name each time with all the love in my heart I have left. She's intelligent, attractive, and treats me well. But my love remains with my best friend. The rest of it is for Bon. My Bon. My Bonny Scot, that never looked back, even at the moment death encircled him. But my heart doesn't whisper his name, like it does for her. It's not whispering.
It's screaming it.
I think about Bon all the time.
I think about Bon when I shouldn't be thinking about Bon.
I'm fifty-five years old. It's been thirty long years since he was taken from me. And whenever I say his name, it still sounds the same. Whenever I see his face in the photos, he looks no different. He can't look different. Rigor mortis. Heartbeats. The only person that stopped me smashing my guitar into pieces in frustration about my life. I smile to myself and think that I took him to places no one else would ever be able to. I made him reach levels of happiness and pleasure no one else could. I made him happy, and he made me happy. We laughed, we cried. He isn't here anymore.
But he will be with me. He's inside me, I am Bon, and Bon is me. Always.
His name remains the same on my lips.
My Bon.