FIC: The Man Who Sold the World (1/1) Bandom
Title: The Man Who Sold the World
Author: Laura Smith
Pairing(s): Ray Toro/Mikey Way
Rating: R
Summary: Ray wants something and Mikey Way's the man to get it from.
Disclaimer: Ray Toro, Mikey Way, and any members of My Chemical Romance or other bands mentioned belong only to themselves. I don't claim them. I don't claim to know them. No harm is intended. I make no profit from this. I just like playing with them.
Summary: Written for cee_m
Mikey’s reputation precedes him. No one in Jersey knows where to get music bootlegs like Mikey does, so he’s the source serious music collectors go to. Ray’s exhausted every other avenue he can go through legally to get a copy of the rumored Bowie sessions from Germany, but he’s at the point of accepting it doesn’t exist when someone reminds him about Mikey Way.
As far as Ray knows, Mikey’s semi-ethical about the shit he sells, at least when it comes to music, but Ray’s never actually dealt with him before. He’s heard rumors that sometimes people aren’t willing to pay what Mikey charges. Every time Ray hears that, it sounds vaguely ominous, like Mikey wants them to off someone in exchange for the uncut ‘Johnny Cash: Live from Folsom Prison’.
He goes to the club because that’s where Mikey is and, like he’s The Fonz or something, he treats it like his personal office. Ray sees him in a crowd of people, so he goes to the bar, orders two beers, catches Mikey’s eye, raises one, and nods his head toward the bar. Mikey raises an eloquent eyebrow that’s either appreciative or telling Ray to fuck off. Ray’s halfway through his beer before he actually gets an answer when Mikey slides onto the stool next to him. His voice is as dry as the desert.
“To what do I owe this honor?”
“I need something. Someone thought you might be the guy to have it.”
“Consorting with the criminal element, Toro.” Mikey makes a ‘tsk’ noise. “Doesn’t seem your style.”
“I’m desperate.”
“Isn’t everybody?” Mikey holds his beer bottle loosely with his fingertips and drinks it in several long swallows. Ray watches his Adam’s apple move, starting to believe that Mikey’s fees might be more than he can afford. Or live with. “Come on.”
“What?”
“We’re not doing business here.” Mikey slides off the stool and nods toward the bar for Ray to pay his bill. “Come on.”
**
Mikey’s apartment is a little like a warehouse. There are boxes and crates everywhere, most of them filled with discs and albums. Ray doesn’t think what it must have taken to haul all of this up the five flights of stairs, but he does re-evaluate his impression of Mikey. He’s a skinny dude, but apparently he can heft a crate full of vinyl. “You’re looking for Bowie.”
“Yeah, I...how did you know that?”
“Word gets around.” He heads toward the other side of the room and moves a few boxes. “You should tell me what you actually want though.”
“Well, I’m not sure it exists.”
“Shangri-la.” Mikey nods and moves another box. “Give me details. Bowie’s good for things that don’t actually exist. I mean, if you believe the internet, he’s done duets with people who died before he was born.”
“Well, apparently back in 1972 he was-”
“Oh, fuck. You’re looking for the Berlin tapes.” Mikey laughs and it’s a ridiculous sound. Ray shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Dude, no one comes looking for the Berlin tapes. They’re like...the Millennium Falcon. Shit. Maltese Falcon. The stuff dreams are made of.” Mike shakes his head. “Fuck.”
“Is that a no then?”
“I’m going to assume that you’re here because you know my reputation.” Mikey’s facial expression is flat and impossible to read, but Ray’s pretty sure he managed to insult him.
“You can’t have what doesn’t exist, man.”
“Did I say it didn’t exist?”
“You sort of implied it.”
“I was creating dramatic effect.”
“Oh. So you do have it.”
“I didn’t say that either.”
Ray sighs and reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “So it exists, but you don’t have it.”
“Give me your number.” He digs a receipt out of his pocket and hands it to Ray with what Ray is pretty sure is an eyeliner stick. “Give me a week.”
**
Ray gets a text on Friday night with nothing more than c me mway so he goes to the bar. Mikey’s obviously looking for him, because the minute he sees Ray he comes over and heads outside. Ray follows, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets against the cold as Mikey starts walking toward his apartment.
“So, I talked to a guy I know who knows a guy who knows another guy who has an ex-girlfriend who lived in Finland who knows this guy who used to live in Germany.” Ray doesn’t bother to follow the convoluted stretch of people. It’s kind of like all the begats in the Bible and, really, all Ray cares about is whether or not it leads to him owning Bowie. “Anyway. He knows people apparently.”
Mikey unlocks the door and Ray actually watches him do it, wondering how Mikey can get away with a shitty deadbolt for his security. He’s got to have at least a several thousand dollars worth of music in his crap apartment. Mikey locks the door behind him and glances at Ray. “Anyone who rips me off would have to fence this shit, and anyone who’s anyone would know where it came from. Which means it would get back to me. Someone might be stupid enough, but then I’d say they deserve what they get, huh? Darwinian, right?”
“Yeah.” Ray rubs his hands on his thighs. “So. The Bowie.”
“You didn’t say if you wanted disc or vinyl.” Ray knows that’s a test and just gives Mikey a look. Mikey laughs, that ridiculous honking, braying sound. “Yeah, yeah. Okay.” He goes into the other room for a minute and comes out with a thin brown box. He sets it down on a stack of crates that are roughly table height and opens it, pulling a record sleeve out with the kind of care that most people don’t even use with newborns.
“That’s it?” Ray asks, his voice rough.
“You want to hear it?” Mikey doesn’t wait for an answer, just goes over to what might be the slickest audio set-up Ray’s seen outside a professional studio. He sets the disc down and lifts the cover off the turntable then eases the record out of the sleeve. Ray has to remind himself to breathe as Mikey moves the stylus over to the vinyl and sets it down. There’s a hiss and a pop and then a low whir and then there’s silence and then suddenly Bowie’s voice fills the room like vintage whiskey and high-grade cocaine.
“Fuck.”
Mikey just nods and Ray sits down on one of the plastic lawn chairs that Mikey has for furniture. Ray closes his eyes, his hands automatically trying to find the guitar track. He can feel Mikey watching him, but he doesn’t care. He shakes his head slowly, lost in the music, and it startles him when it ends, the skip and catch of the stylus before it slides back home. When he opens his eyes, Mikey is leaning against the wall, hips cocked slightly forward, his arms behind him. “You want to hear side two first?”
“I don’t care if side two is yodeling monks. I’ll take it.”
“We need to talk about price. Tell me what you think it’s worth.”
Ray nods and clears his throat. “A hundred bucks.”
“A hundred.” Mikey’s voice doesn’t give anything away, so Ray clears his throat again.
“And a blow job.”
Mikey’s eyebrows disappear beneath his bangs. “Did you just offer me a blow job for David Bowie?”
Ray feels the blush staining his skin and swallows hard. Fuck. Did he undervalue Bowie? Is he not getting this bootleg? “Um.”
“Have you ever even given a blow job?”
“I...”
“I mean, I’m sure you’ve had them.” His eyes go directly to Ray’s crotch, and Ray can feel the heat burning the tips of his ears. “But giving and getting aren’t the same thing, no matter what porn would have you believe.”
“I just...um.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not a fan of obligatory blow jobs. Let’s go with $150.”
“Right. I mean, yes. I mean. Money. Yeah.” Ray pulls his wallet out and thumbs out the bills, holding them out toward Mikey. “Thank you. For the record. Not...not for not wanting...I mean...” He squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head before looking at Mikey again. “Thanks.”
“Always good to quit while you’re ahead, dude.” Mikey sleeves the record again and brings it over to Ray, exchanging it for the cash. “You’re welcome.”
**
Ray shows up at the club a couple weeks later. He’s not really sure why he’s there, because it’s out of his usual neighborhood. He tells himself he just wants to thank Mikey for the record, but he’s pretty sure Mikey’s content with just the cash. Still, he weaves through the crowd to the bar and orders two beers and two shots of whiskey, taking them with him as he makes his way toward Mikey.
Mikey’s coming out of the pit, his body slick with sweat and his hair artfully arranged into something that roughly resembles ‘styled with an eggbeater’. Ray has to give him credit, he wears it well. “Hey.”
Mikey nods. “Hey. Those for me?”
Ray hands him a beer and a shot. “Yeah. Consider it a tip for a job well done.”
“Not the tip I was expecting.” Mikey grins and glances at Ray’s crotch again before he takes a pull from his beer. “But thanks.”
Ray can feel the blush again, and he swallows half his beer in a few deep pulls. “We could maybe discuss that.”
“I never mix business with pleasure.”
Ray hands Mikey a disc of the Bowie bootleg, liner notes copied out meticulously. Mikey raises his eyebrows and Ray smiles at him. “I prefer business before pleasure.”
Mikey downs his shot and glances at the disc again. “You may just have a point.”
Author: Laura Smith
Pairing(s): Ray Toro/Mikey Way
Rating: R
Summary: Ray wants something and Mikey Way's the man to get it from.
Disclaimer: Ray Toro, Mikey Way, and any members of My Chemical Romance or other bands mentioned belong only to themselves. I don't claim them. I don't claim to know them. No harm is intended. I make no profit from this. I just like playing with them.
Summary: Written for cee_m
Mikey’s reputation precedes him. No one in Jersey knows where to get music bootlegs like Mikey does, so he’s the source serious music collectors go to. Ray’s exhausted every other avenue he can go through legally to get a copy of the rumored Bowie sessions from Germany, but he’s at the point of accepting it doesn’t exist when someone reminds him about Mikey Way.
As far as Ray knows, Mikey’s semi-ethical about the shit he sells, at least when it comes to music, but Ray’s never actually dealt with him before. He’s heard rumors that sometimes people aren’t willing to pay what Mikey charges. Every time Ray hears that, it sounds vaguely ominous, like Mikey wants them to off someone in exchange for the uncut ‘Johnny Cash: Live from Folsom Prison’.
He goes to the club because that’s where Mikey is and, like he’s The Fonz or something, he treats it like his personal office. Ray sees him in a crowd of people, so he goes to the bar, orders two beers, catches Mikey’s eye, raises one, and nods his head toward the bar. Mikey raises an eloquent eyebrow that’s either appreciative or telling Ray to fuck off. Ray’s halfway through his beer before he actually gets an answer when Mikey slides onto the stool next to him. His voice is as dry as the desert.
“To what do I owe this honor?”
“I need something. Someone thought you might be the guy to have it.”
“Consorting with the criminal element, Toro.” Mikey makes a ‘tsk’ noise. “Doesn’t seem your style.”
“I’m desperate.”
“Isn’t everybody?” Mikey holds his beer bottle loosely with his fingertips and drinks it in several long swallows. Ray watches his Adam’s apple move, starting to believe that Mikey’s fees might be more than he can afford. Or live with. “Come on.”
“What?”
“We’re not doing business here.” Mikey slides off the stool and nods toward the bar for Ray to pay his bill. “Come on.”
**
Mikey’s apartment is a little like a warehouse. There are boxes and crates everywhere, most of them filled with discs and albums. Ray doesn’t think what it must have taken to haul all of this up the five flights of stairs, but he does re-evaluate his impression of Mikey. He’s a skinny dude, but apparently he can heft a crate full of vinyl. “You’re looking for Bowie.”
“Yeah, I...how did you know that?”
“Word gets around.” He heads toward the other side of the room and moves a few boxes. “You should tell me what you actually want though.”
“Well, I’m not sure it exists.”
“Shangri-la.” Mikey nods and moves another box. “Give me details. Bowie’s good for things that don’t actually exist. I mean, if you believe the internet, he’s done duets with people who died before he was born.”
“Well, apparently back in 1972 he was-”
“Oh, fuck. You’re looking for the Berlin tapes.” Mikey laughs and it’s a ridiculous sound. Ray shoves his hands in his pockets and shrugs. “Dude, no one comes looking for the Berlin tapes. They’re like...the Millennium Falcon. Shit. Maltese Falcon. The stuff dreams are made of.” Mike shakes his head. “Fuck.”
“Is that a no then?”
“I’m going to assume that you’re here because you know my reputation.” Mikey’s facial expression is flat and impossible to read, but Ray’s pretty sure he managed to insult him.
“You can’t have what doesn’t exist, man.”
“Did I say it didn’t exist?”
“You sort of implied it.”
“I was creating dramatic effect.”
“Oh. So you do have it.”
“I didn’t say that either.”
Ray sighs and reaches up to rub the back of his neck. “So it exists, but you don’t have it.”
“Give me your number.” He digs a receipt out of his pocket and hands it to Ray with what Ray is pretty sure is an eyeliner stick. “Give me a week.”
**
Ray gets a text on Friday night with nothing more than c me mway so he goes to the bar. Mikey’s obviously looking for him, because the minute he sees Ray he comes over and heads outside. Ray follows, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets against the cold as Mikey starts walking toward his apartment.
“So, I talked to a guy I know who knows a guy who knows another guy who has an ex-girlfriend who lived in Finland who knows this guy who used to live in Germany.” Ray doesn’t bother to follow the convoluted stretch of people. It’s kind of like all the begats in the Bible and, really, all Ray cares about is whether or not it leads to him owning Bowie. “Anyway. He knows people apparently.”
Mikey unlocks the door and Ray actually watches him do it, wondering how Mikey can get away with a shitty deadbolt for his security. He’s got to have at least a several thousand dollars worth of music in his crap apartment. Mikey locks the door behind him and glances at Ray. “Anyone who rips me off would have to fence this shit, and anyone who’s anyone would know where it came from. Which means it would get back to me. Someone might be stupid enough, but then I’d say they deserve what they get, huh? Darwinian, right?”
“Yeah.” Ray rubs his hands on his thighs. “So. The Bowie.”
“You didn’t say if you wanted disc or vinyl.” Ray knows that’s a test and just gives Mikey a look. Mikey laughs, that ridiculous honking, braying sound. “Yeah, yeah. Okay.” He goes into the other room for a minute and comes out with a thin brown box. He sets it down on a stack of crates that are roughly table height and opens it, pulling a record sleeve out with the kind of care that most people don’t even use with newborns.
“That’s it?” Ray asks, his voice rough.
“You want to hear it?” Mikey doesn’t wait for an answer, just goes over to what might be the slickest audio set-up Ray’s seen outside a professional studio. He sets the disc down and lifts the cover off the turntable then eases the record out of the sleeve. Ray has to remind himself to breathe as Mikey moves the stylus over to the vinyl and sets it down. There’s a hiss and a pop and then a low whir and then there’s silence and then suddenly Bowie’s voice fills the room like vintage whiskey and high-grade cocaine.
“Fuck.”
Mikey just nods and Ray sits down on one of the plastic lawn chairs that Mikey has for furniture. Ray closes his eyes, his hands automatically trying to find the guitar track. He can feel Mikey watching him, but he doesn’t care. He shakes his head slowly, lost in the music, and it startles him when it ends, the skip and catch of the stylus before it slides back home. When he opens his eyes, Mikey is leaning against the wall, hips cocked slightly forward, his arms behind him. “You want to hear side two first?”
“I don’t care if side two is yodeling monks. I’ll take it.”
“We need to talk about price. Tell me what you think it’s worth.”
Ray nods and clears his throat. “A hundred bucks.”
“A hundred.” Mikey’s voice doesn’t give anything away, so Ray clears his throat again.
“And a blow job.”
Mikey’s eyebrows disappear beneath his bangs. “Did you just offer me a blow job for David Bowie?”
Ray feels the blush staining his skin and swallows hard. Fuck. Did he undervalue Bowie? Is he not getting this bootleg? “Um.”
“Have you ever even given a blow job?”
“I...”
“I mean, I’m sure you’ve had them.” His eyes go directly to Ray’s crotch, and Ray can feel the heat burning the tips of his ears. “But giving and getting aren’t the same thing, no matter what porn would have you believe.”
“I just...um.”
“Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate the offer, but I’m not a fan of obligatory blow jobs. Let’s go with $150.”
“Right. I mean, yes. I mean. Money. Yeah.” Ray pulls his wallet out and thumbs out the bills, holding them out toward Mikey. “Thank you. For the record. Not...not for not wanting...I mean...” He squeezes his eyes closed and shakes his head before looking at Mikey again. “Thanks.”
“Always good to quit while you’re ahead, dude.” Mikey sleeves the record again and brings it over to Ray, exchanging it for the cash. “You’re welcome.”
**
Ray shows up at the club a couple weeks later. He’s not really sure why he’s there, because it’s out of his usual neighborhood. He tells himself he just wants to thank Mikey for the record, but he’s pretty sure Mikey’s content with just the cash. Still, he weaves through the crowd to the bar and orders two beers and two shots of whiskey, taking them with him as he makes his way toward Mikey.
Mikey’s coming out of the pit, his body slick with sweat and his hair artfully arranged into something that roughly resembles ‘styled with an eggbeater’. Ray has to give him credit, he wears it well. “Hey.”
Mikey nods. “Hey. Those for me?”
Ray hands him a beer and a shot. “Yeah. Consider it a tip for a job well done.”
“Not the tip I was expecting.” Mikey grins and glances at Ray’s crotch again before he takes a pull from his beer. “But thanks.”
Ray can feel the blush again, and he swallows half his beer in a few deep pulls. “We could maybe discuss that.”
“I never mix business with pleasure.”
Ray hands Mikey a disc of the Bowie bootleg, liner notes copied out meticulously. Mikey raises his eyebrows and Ray smiles at him. “I prefer business before pleasure.”
Mikey downs his shot and glances at the disc again. “You may just have a point.”