(no subject)
SUP GUYS
So while I was sitting in front of my computer late this evening feeling sorry for myself I figured I’d write something up quick. Just a couple drabbles, I’ll try to do more of these more frequently if they don’t become too obnoxious.
Both are Pete/Roger obviously because that’s all I’m capable of doing relatively well so we’ll just continue on with that.
Rating: Probably PG-13
Pairing: Poger, as stated. 044 is pre-established, 072 is following a few one-night stands.
Warnings: Suggestive situations, drug/alcohol use. Misuse of drabble titles wootwoot
Disclaimer: I do not own anything wooo
044 Drugs (‘74-’76)
Fucking Townshend was drunk again. And high, more than likely. The mixture of the two probably meant hell was what was coming back to the hotel room that night. Roger slammed the phone back into it’s receiver and fell back onto the bed. He frowned at the ceiling for a few minutes, seething and steeling himself for whatever bitchiness the guitarist would lay on him upon his arrival.
A knock on the door finally did arrive. Roger sat up with a groan and trudged to the wooden slab and opened it. As expected, Pete stood on the other side, scowling. “What the hell took you so long to open the door?”
“Well, I was so bloody excited to see your shining, sober face that I dashed to the door as soon as I heard you knock,” Roger sneered. He followed Pete as the guitarist entered the room and splayed on the bed, grimacing at him. “Not every show needs to be followed by partying.”
“Yes, mum,” Pete mumbled into his pillow. Roger walked to the other edge of the bed and yanked the covers back, rolling Pete onto the floor below. The singer, already dressed for sleep, sat down on the mattress and waited for the cussing and undressing guitarist to hurry the hell up.
“You’re not gonna sleep much anyways,” Roger said as Pete climbed under the covers. “Whatever you smoked or drank tonight is keeping you up for the next few hours.”
Pete looked at him a moment and smiled. He leaned over and nuzzled the blonde’s neck, nipping at it a bit before whispering, “We could kill that time easily, love.”
Roger knocked him away with a pillow. “Nice fucking try.”
072 Train (‘69 - ‘70, sometime after Tommy and before beard-Pete)
The one thing Pete enjoyed about touring in Europe was the range of transportation. It drove everyone else mad, but he didn’t mind. By bus, by plane, even just driving there. The trains in Italy though, however, were his favorite. The view outside the windows was always changing, never boring. The writer had sat in the same spot the whole trip, gazing at the scenery until the late hour. He was still there at midnight, profile outlined by the moonlight.
That was how Roger found him, dozing off on the vinyl seat in the walkway. Smiling softly, the singer sat next to him, watching air enter and leave his body in small breathes. His head was cradled in his crossed arms, laying on top of the ridge to the windowsill. Roger copied this position and slid closer so their elbows barely touched. The singer flinched as Pete stirred at the slight contact and opened his eyes.
“Rog, why are you out here so late?” Pete yawned. “You need sleep more than the rest of us.”
“I disagree. The bags under your eyes could carry water across the Sahara,” Roger chuckled lightly.
“I’ll pretend that made sense. I still have no idea where you get your metaphors.” Pete giggled quietly as well, the exhaustion making his brain light. He sat straight and leaned against Roger’s side.
“Make them up as I go along. Sorry I can’t be quite as clever as you, Pete,” The singer readjusted his position to stretch his legs across the upholstery. He laid flat, resting his head in the guitarist’s lap and sighing. It was quiet for a while following the motion. Pete idly ran his fingers through Roger’s hair and hummed snippets from songs floating around his mind. Roger cleared his voice and spoke, “Ey, Pete? I need to, erm, well, I was going to have to ask you this eventually.”
“What’s that?” Pete’s calloused thumb smoothed the blonde’s brow.
“What are we, exactly?” Roger flinched slightly as the words passed his lips, regretting them almost immediately.
“God, I should have figured this was coming,” Pete groaned. He frowned and kept his fingers twined in his singer’s locks, considering a good answer. “What do you think we are, or should be?”
“Pardon, but I asked you. Don’t avoid the question like you always do,” Roger snapped. “I’m just wondering if I’m wasting my time thinking there’s something past the random fucks.”
Pete worriedly petted the singer’s hair. “Well obviously no. If it were that we wouldn’t be in the position we’re in now.”
Roger muttered a passive response, leaving the guitarist the hint he no longer wanted to discuss it and it was better left for another day, a less sober night.