i'm the walking wounded
title: Piano for Four Hands
re: Mick/Keith in a quiet sort of way.
words: 500
note: for aworldinside, with love, and with thanks to therealjae and allthingsholy
never happened: don't sue!
summary: You're halfway to the floor, and I'd love to let you lie there.
I watch you walking in, wearing clothes you've had on for three days straight. Face unshaven, cheekbones shadowed, eyes very black.
(Your skin prickles, buzzing all over, strongest inside your left thigh where the needle's just been. You didn't get high. All flights grounded, fucking fogged in. You try not to look into the eyes watching yours, try not to hear that voice.)
I say, "What'd the Swiss doctors do you with, then? Blood of a virgin?" No smile, and the usual piss-off-Mick glare scarcely appears. Whatever they did, it was no cure. You fall across the room, toward the piano.
(The piano's shaped like a boat, a slow boat to China. You reach out and the keys feel blessedly cool, almost as good as a guitar. One chord, then two, hang blue on the air.)
I don't need to listen. I stand up to leave.
(You play whatever old songs you can dredge up, ragged-arsed and loose, looser than ever in your hands tonight. Playing at half-speed, barroom stomp slowed to a funeral march, blue turning grey. Fucking hell.)
(Parsons is dead.)
All right, so I'll sit down by you on the bench, our hips just touching. Only staying for the music. There's the stink of your dope, your sweat. Inhaling too close to you I smell you like something burnt, and I'd toss you out of my bloody suite if yours had a piano. You play without singing.
(You play without singing.)
I place my hands on the keys, echoing you two octaves down.
(Your blood and the music both grow heavier, pulling you under. You know the hands beside yours have caught the rhythm, though they're blurry in your eyes. No more fucking tears, though; not now, maybe never again. Everything soft as clouds and heavy as chains.)
When you nod out, I take the cigarette out of your lips to keep your shirt from catching fire. You don't notice. You're halfway to the floor, and I'd love to let you lie there. Instead I wrap my arm around you, hauling you to your feet, pivoting your weight toward the sofa. Too tired for this. Too tired of this.
(You're aware of those hands on your back for a moment, like dancing, and then--)
I wonder where Anita's gone, or Bobby; you should be crying and dribbling on their shoulders, not mine. I don't feel sorry for you. All these junkies going to pieces over one more fucking junkie gone the way you're all going.
(--Awake with a jolt that leaves you shuddering, skin frozen to your bones. You huddle toward the warmth, the steady breathing that almost calms your own. Hips just touching. The fog rolls in, but that's an old friend.)
But I can't simply leave you alone, can I? Not now, maybe never.
"Fucking sad song," I say. I get your hair in my mouth, and reach around your shoulder to smooth it down.
(You go to sleep.)
We go to sleep.
*
Feedback always cherished, in case you forgot in the approximately one hundred years since I last posted something.
re: Mick/Keith in a quiet sort of way.
words: 500
note: for aworldinside, with love, and with thanks to therealjae and allthingsholy
never happened: don't sue!
summary: You're halfway to the floor, and I'd love to let you lie there.
I watch you walking in, wearing clothes you've had on for three days straight. Face unshaven, cheekbones shadowed, eyes very black.
(Your skin prickles, buzzing all over, strongest inside your left thigh where the needle's just been. You didn't get high. All flights grounded, fucking fogged in. You try not to look into the eyes watching yours, try not to hear that voice.)
I say, "What'd the Swiss doctors do you with, then? Blood of a virgin?" No smile, and the usual piss-off-Mick glare scarcely appears. Whatever they did, it was no cure. You fall across the room, toward the piano.
(The piano's shaped like a boat, a slow boat to China. You reach out and the keys feel blessedly cool, almost as good as a guitar. One chord, then two, hang blue on the air.)
I don't need to listen. I stand up to leave.
(You play whatever old songs you can dredge up, ragged-arsed and loose, looser than ever in your hands tonight. Playing at half-speed, barroom stomp slowed to a funeral march, blue turning grey. Fucking hell.)
(Parsons is dead.)
All right, so I'll sit down by you on the bench, our hips just touching. Only staying for the music. There's the stink of your dope, your sweat. Inhaling too close to you I smell you like something burnt, and I'd toss you out of my bloody suite if yours had a piano. You play without singing.
(You play without singing.)
I place my hands on the keys, echoing you two octaves down.
(Your blood and the music both grow heavier, pulling you under. You know the hands beside yours have caught the rhythm, though they're blurry in your eyes. No more fucking tears, though; not now, maybe never again. Everything soft as clouds and heavy as chains.)
When you nod out, I take the cigarette out of your lips to keep your shirt from catching fire. You don't notice. You're halfway to the floor, and I'd love to let you lie there. Instead I wrap my arm around you, hauling you to your feet, pivoting your weight toward the sofa. Too tired for this. Too tired of this.
(You're aware of those hands on your back for a moment, like dancing, and then--)
I wonder where Anita's gone, or Bobby; you should be crying and dribbling on their shoulders, not mine. I don't feel sorry for you. All these junkies going to pieces over one more fucking junkie gone the way you're all going.
(--Awake with a jolt that leaves you shuddering, skin frozen to your bones. You huddle toward the warmth, the steady breathing that almost calms your own. Hips just touching. The fog rolls in, but that's an old friend.)
But I can't simply leave you alone, can I? Not now, maybe never.
"Fucking sad song," I say. I get your hair in my mouth, and reach around your shoulder to smooth it down.
(You go to sleep.)
We go to sleep.
*
Feedback always cherished, in case you forgot in the approximately one hundred years since I last posted something.