(no subject)
Who: John Constantine (onhiswaydown) and Lucifer Morningstar (freedomtoleave).
Where: Physically speaking, John and Lucifer are in the Lux (with permissions from Kal), but for the purposes of this log, they're in a dreamworld.
When: Ongoing.
Summary: John's caught in a dream of what his life would be like if he'd gotten to be what he wanted to be. Lucifer's meddling.
Rating: TBA
The crisp warmth of the smoke in his lungs lent steel to nerves that were bright and jumpy. He was always jumpy, every goddamn show. Talk to anyone who didn't know him well, and they'd tell you he wasn't, that his nerves were always steel, he was a rock, the crowd crashed and broke against him and he weathered it, but that wasn't true. He sucked down a pack between the time the guitar came out of its case and the moment he walked out on stage. His sense of humor, sharp and biting as it was, usually turned into a razor thin concentration that didn't acknowledge anything around him unless it was forced to. A concentration that did not break but snapped in sharp curses and harsh glares.
So, he wasn't the best to work with. Sue him.
What that did do for him, though, was clear out his dressing room real fast. Once he was dressed and whatever too young girl with a bright smile and her eyes on his jeans--not that John didn't smile back, or flirt or take notice--had put on the make up that kept him from looking like a ghost on stage, once his manager had gone off to work the next event and the rest of the band had started doing what they needed to do to get their heads in the right place, his room cleared out entirely. And it was just John then. Just John and his guitar.
The guitar itself was light on the familiar strap that only dug just a little into his shoulder. The thing had become a natural extension of his body by now. His back was curved, shoulders hunched forward and head tipped low. His fingers walked with a familiar grace over the strings. He plucked a few notes, half-heartedly experimental. The humming was automatic, bone deep. The melody changed, just as bare, as skeletal, but more fluid. More familiar. Something borrowed.
"See a red door and I want to paint it black," he murmured more than sang. His eyes flicked up, catching on the dark eyes of his reflection in the lighted mirror.
Here he was. Twenty-eight. In a pair of jeans that had cost him more than his first car. His hair painstakingly mussed to look like he'd just rolled out of bed--he didn't touch it, he'd learned not to touch it. He couldn't remember how much the shirt had been. He was about to play a venue that had sold out the same day the tickets had gone up for sale. He'd just got off the phone with Cindy. She'd said the interview had been scheduled. It looked like he was going to be on the cover of Rolling Stone again. And here he was.
The corner of his mouth drew up in a smirk. Life was bitchin'.
Absently he shifted to pluck the cigarette from his mouth and stub it out in the ashtray. His attention came better into focus, and he plucked a few more notes, strummed a chord, broke into the first few bars of the opening number, before cutting out again. Yeah, he was ready. He'd had his alone time, now it was time to go out and make the music happen, to breathe in the life of the crowd. And he was ready for it.
Where: Physically speaking, John and Lucifer are in the Lux (with permissions from Kal), but for the purposes of this log, they're in a dreamworld.
When: Ongoing.
Summary: John's caught in a dream of what his life would be like if he'd gotten to be what he wanted to be. Lucifer's meddling.
Rating: TBA
The crisp warmth of the smoke in his lungs lent steel to nerves that were bright and jumpy. He was always jumpy, every goddamn show. Talk to anyone who didn't know him well, and they'd tell you he wasn't, that his nerves were always steel, he was a rock, the crowd crashed and broke against him and he weathered it, but that wasn't true. He sucked down a pack between the time the guitar came out of its case and the moment he walked out on stage. His sense of humor, sharp and biting as it was, usually turned into a razor thin concentration that didn't acknowledge anything around him unless it was forced to. A concentration that did not break but snapped in sharp curses and harsh glares.
So, he wasn't the best to work with. Sue him.
What that did do for him, though, was clear out his dressing room real fast. Once he was dressed and whatever too young girl with a bright smile and her eyes on his jeans--not that John didn't smile back, or flirt or take notice--had put on the make up that kept him from looking like a ghost on stage, once his manager had gone off to work the next event and the rest of the band had started doing what they needed to do to get their heads in the right place, his room cleared out entirely. And it was just John then. Just John and his guitar.
The guitar itself was light on the familiar strap that only dug just a little into his shoulder. The thing had become a natural extension of his body by now. His back was curved, shoulders hunched forward and head tipped low. His fingers walked with a familiar grace over the strings. He plucked a few notes, half-heartedly experimental. The humming was automatic, bone deep. The melody changed, just as bare, as skeletal, but more fluid. More familiar. Something borrowed.
"See a red door and I want to paint it black," he murmured more than sang. His eyes flicked up, catching on the dark eyes of his reflection in the lighted mirror.
Here he was. Twenty-eight. In a pair of jeans that had cost him more than his first car. His hair painstakingly mussed to look like he'd just rolled out of bed--he didn't touch it, he'd learned not to touch it. He couldn't remember how much the shirt had been. He was about to play a venue that had sold out the same day the tickets had gone up for sale. He'd just got off the phone with Cindy. She'd said the interview had been scheduled. It looked like he was going to be on the cover of Rolling Stone again. And here he was.
The corner of his mouth drew up in a smirk. Life was bitchin'.
Absently he shifted to pluck the cigarette from his mouth and stub it out in the ashtray. His attention came better into focus, and he plucked a few more notes, strummed a chord, broke into the first few bars of the opening number, before cutting out again. Yeah, he was ready. He'd had his alone time, now it was time to go out and make the music happen, to breathe in the life of the crowd. And he was ready for it.