(no subject)
Title: Drinkers Don't Need Names
Fandom: The Who with a mystery guest
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: While loosely based around actual events of 1966, this is not real. The people are real, but I seriously doubt this ever happened. And thank you very much to luisadeza for her assistance.
With the polished brass and chestnut tables and a spicy scent reaching into the furthest of the dimly lit booths, the place didn’t look like a pub, let alone the type of pub the three mod-styled men should be seen in. Deep into their fourth round, the bartender making sure to keep a close eye on the three of them, lest they caused any trouble, they all wore expressions of amusement, two listening keenly to the shortest lad as he monopolised the conversation, gesticulating with his whole arms to emphasise his point. The bartender cringed as his hand swung backwards into one of the glasses, but the fair-haired one caught it with a deft hand.
“As grand as your story is Keith, you didn’t need to assault my drink,” he replied after taking a sip from his beer.
“It wasn’t listening to me.” Keith quickly cast an admonishing glare to the sweaty glass before returning to his smile. “As I was saying, the song is going to be a hit, no matter which album it winds up on. How can it not be when we recorded it - you, Jeff, Jimmy, Me--”
Setting his glass down, he raised his eyebrows in speculation. “And if I wasn’t there?”
“It would tank.” His smile stretching wider Keith gulped down his beer, leaving only tiny clouds of foam in the bottom of his glass.
“I don’t really like what you’re suggesting there,” the other dark-haired youth commented, casting a sideways glance to Keith wiping his mouth dry with his hand.
Keith’s eyes took on a wicked gleam, hovering over his fingers. “I know your style; it wouldn’t have had the rhythm that the song required.”
A beat and the two other men locked eyes, uncertain but not offended. If anything they were waiting, anticipating another punch-line. Taking his time to take a sip of his own drink he glanced back to his friend. “Why would that be?”
“Because you are too boring,” Keith declared loudly, thumping his hand down to the table, making the glasses rattle. “All bassists are boring, with their four strings and thumbs, they don’t compare to the arsenal I pack.”
“You are talking rubbish, once again.” The fair one shook his head, turning back towards the other man. “Is he like this all the time?”
“Always, if not worse.” He kept his eyes forward, expression focused in its determination to not smirk or look at all towards Keith.
Keith’s mouth fell open, trying for indignant while not laughing. “John!”
“What?” the two replied at the same time.
Making a face of annoyance Keith pointed his finger, waving it between the two. “This is not working. Choruses are for songs, not for chatter. We need a solution to this... craziness.”
“And here I thought you revelled in craziness,” the fair one remarked.
“He does, as long as he’s supplying the crazy,” the other one corrected.
“Hush now boys.” Wagging his finger in lecture mode Keith lifted his chin appraisingly. His finger wandered to the side, pointing to the dark haired man. “Since I’ve known you the longest, you can remain John. Seniority is important after all.” His finger swung back to the other side, the fairer man waiting expectantly. “And you shall be... Jonesy.”
“Well Jonesy, seeing as we’re too boring for Keith here, should we be on our way?” John asked.
Jonesy considered the question, his glass still poised upon his lips; within a few seconds the rest of his beer was gone. “I thought we were too crazy for him.”
“Crazy and boring, such a bad combination,” John said. Putting his own glass on the table beside Jonesy’s he stood up. “Hope to see you soon Keith, when I’m exciting enough for you.”
“I’d say the same thing, but I’m afraid I’ll always be too boring,” Jonesy lamented.
Keith stared at their backs as they departed from the booth, hands lifted to wave at the still staring bartender. “The sods,” he grumbled under his breath before hollering across the near empty pub. “Bring me another!”
Fandom: The Who with a mystery guest
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: While loosely based around actual events of 1966, this is not real. The people are real, but I seriously doubt this ever happened. And thank you very much to luisadeza for her assistance.
With the polished brass and chestnut tables and a spicy scent reaching into the furthest of the dimly lit booths, the place didn’t look like a pub, let alone the type of pub the three mod-styled men should be seen in. Deep into their fourth round, the bartender making sure to keep a close eye on the three of them, lest they caused any trouble, they all wore expressions of amusement, two listening keenly to the shortest lad as he monopolised the conversation, gesticulating with his whole arms to emphasise his point. The bartender cringed as his hand swung backwards into one of the glasses, but the fair-haired one caught it with a deft hand.
“As grand as your story is Keith, you didn’t need to assault my drink,” he replied after taking a sip from his beer.
“It wasn’t listening to me.” Keith quickly cast an admonishing glare to the sweaty glass before returning to his smile. “As I was saying, the song is going to be a hit, no matter which album it winds up on. How can it not be when we recorded it - you, Jeff, Jimmy, Me--”
Setting his glass down, he raised his eyebrows in speculation. “And if I wasn’t there?”
“It would tank.” His smile stretching wider Keith gulped down his beer, leaving only tiny clouds of foam in the bottom of his glass.
“I don’t really like what you’re suggesting there,” the other dark-haired youth commented, casting a sideways glance to Keith wiping his mouth dry with his hand.
Keith’s eyes took on a wicked gleam, hovering over his fingers. “I know your style; it wouldn’t have had the rhythm that the song required.”
A beat and the two other men locked eyes, uncertain but not offended. If anything they were waiting, anticipating another punch-line. Taking his time to take a sip of his own drink he glanced back to his friend. “Why would that be?”
“Because you are too boring,” Keith declared loudly, thumping his hand down to the table, making the glasses rattle. “All bassists are boring, with their four strings and thumbs, they don’t compare to the arsenal I pack.”
“You are talking rubbish, once again.” The fair one shook his head, turning back towards the other man. “Is he like this all the time?”
“Always, if not worse.” He kept his eyes forward, expression focused in its determination to not smirk or look at all towards Keith.
Keith’s mouth fell open, trying for indignant while not laughing. “John!”
“What?” the two replied at the same time.
Making a face of annoyance Keith pointed his finger, waving it between the two. “This is not working. Choruses are for songs, not for chatter. We need a solution to this... craziness.”
“And here I thought you revelled in craziness,” the fair one remarked.
“He does, as long as he’s supplying the crazy,” the other one corrected.
“Hush now boys.” Wagging his finger in lecture mode Keith lifted his chin appraisingly. His finger wandered to the side, pointing to the dark haired man. “Since I’ve known you the longest, you can remain John. Seniority is important after all.” His finger swung back to the other side, the fairer man waiting expectantly. “And you shall be... Jonesy.”
“Well Jonesy, seeing as we’re too boring for Keith here, should we be on our way?” John asked.
Jonesy considered the question, his glass still poised upon his lips; within a few seconds the rest of his beer was gone. “I thought we were too crazy for him.”
“Crazy and boring, such a bad combination,” John said. Putting his own glass on the table beside Jonesy’s he stood up. “Hope to see you soon Keith, when I’m exciting enough for you.”
“I’d say the same thing, but I’m afraid I’ll always be too boring,” Jonesy lamented.
Keith stared at their backs as they departed from the booth, hands lifted to wave at the still staring bartender. “The sods,” he grumbled under his breath before hollering across the near empty pub. “Bring me another!”