Love Potion #1921 (Chapter Three)
Title: Love Potion #1921 (Chapter Three)
Chapter: Tres
Author: it's me Blakely
Rating: R/NC17 overall
Pairings: Keith Poger Koger (lil taste of everything)
Time period: Tommy recording sessions and the Who Tour 1971
Warnings: swearing, mentions of adult content, but no explicit material (that'll be a bit later)
Disclaimer: I do not own The Who. This is a work of fiction and was not intended to be taken seriously.
Summary: Keith is always up to all kinds of shenanigans, including the discovery of a powerful love potion. But if the powerful substance gets into the wrong hands, who knows what could happen?
A/N: I think this is the first time I've ever updated in such a short period of time. I really love this idea though, and I have a feeling you all will too(: enjoy! (Also, btw, I don't know a thing about subway systems in New York. Bear with me.)
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Chapter Three
Roger woke up feeling the best he'd ever felt.
On the outside. He felt great physically, not hungover or achy like he usually felt after concerts, but bright and alert. But once he sat awake trying to ponder what on Earth could have summoned him up on his own at 6 am, it hit him. Last night. He last remembered rushing to the loo, sitting and holding his head, and a terrible, wonderful tingle in his stomach...
And Keith.
Just the mention of his name brought a tremor down his back, a good tremor. This scared Roger. Why did I just do that? He got up, confused, but surprised at how attentive he already was at this hour. But what happened after the bathroom?
He must have passed out. Someone must have brought him to bed, Pete probably.
But it was so early. He watched the faded bustling of the people in the streets below the hotel before getting up and heading for the bathroom to shower and tame his unruly curls.
But halfway through blow-drying his hair, he froze. The feeling. It was almost an urge, deep in the pit of his stomach, an urge to stop and do something...but what? He set the blow dryer down, his hair still wet, and walked into the foyer. No one else was awake, not surprisingly. Rog didn't know what he was looking for. He scoffed, turning back for the bathroom.
Suddenly a slight rustle from the second bedroom stopped the singer in his tracks, and he eyed the door. It was probably John - he woke the earliest of them all, usually - but it wasn't him whom Roger had his mind set on. Sure enough, the gentle thudding of footsteps and the sound of a shower could be heard, and once the bassist was gone, Roger carefully opened the door.
Darkness obscured the floor and the furniture from Rog's vision, but he could nonetheless make out Keith's sleeping form on the bed. He carefully tred across the room, studying the unconscious man. Keith looked so very innocent when he was asleep, his brown eyes closed gently in almost a boyish way, his little tummy puffing in and out with each breath. His lips were slightly pursed with natural excursion, and right then he looked so sweet, so beautiful, Roger leaned in, scrutinizing, wanting just to press his own lips to Keith's so badly. What's one kiss anyway, he thought, getting closer.
"Roger???" Pete voice from the other room was shrouded by the wall, but Rog could hear the worry in his tone anyway. He puffed out a sigh, stepping away from Keith and out their bedroom into his and Pete's.
"I'm right here, mate," he said, acknowledging Pete who was just about to walk into the foyer.
"Roger! You're up!" Something sparked in the guitarist's blue eyes, almost like a pang of longing, but whatever it was he seemed to hold it back, just inspecting Roger instead. Rog let out a smile he wasn't really anticipating himself, and slid past Pete to return to his hair dryer. But Pete caught his arm, pulling him back toward him.
"Do you remember what happened last night?" the guitarist asked warily.
Roger frowned. "Barely... Did I...?"
"Yeah." Pete matched the blonde's frown. "Did you get another migraine? I remember you used to get really bloody horrible ones..."
Migraine. Maybe that was it. "That must be why," Roger mused. "I just recall my head really...killing me." That seemed to sum it up.
Pete looked oddly relieved. "Thank God. You should go take some meds, Rog."
The singer figured he was right. He didn't want another attack. So as soon as his hair was dry, he grabbed two just-in-case pills he always kept packed and went into the mini hotel kitchen, downing them with water.
Luckily for the band, they had the entire day off before performing again at the same facility as last night. Kit didn't have anything planned, and Rog figured as soon the others were up they could find something to do in the Big City. But once he thought about it, the only person who still needed up was Keith.
Roger got up, getting an idea. Sneaking into the room again and past a still-showering Enty, he gently nudged Keith's shoulder. The man just snored and flipped to his side.
"Keith-y, wake up...!" Roger finally resorted to climbing over the drummer and jumping, shaking the bed violently in the process. Finally the man came to, a grouchy hungover look in his eyes.
"What the hell..." he muttered, draping his arm over his eyes. Roger giggled despite himself.
"It's a big day!" he sung, dropping to his haunches and smiling at the drummer. Keith's eyes were half-open, and he stared at Roger in dismay.
"Wha...? Why can't I sleep in?"
"'Cause I'm not gonna let you waste the whole day sleeping!" Roger was very close to Keith at that moment, inches away, and he leaned back when he was aware of this. Huh. "I'll make you breakfast."
In the kitchen he whipped up some fried eggs for himself and the others (who all highly appreciated his acute keenness to the art of preparing meals) putting a bit extra cheese on Keith's because he knew he'd like it. But instead of leaving Keith's share on the countertop like the others', he decided he'd take it right to the drummer.
Roger carefully balanced the cup of tea on the plate and knocked on Keith's bathroom door. The drip of the faucet and the sound of a razor on skin could be heard, and Keith replied with, "Mmm, yeah?"
"Keith, it's Roger! I made ya some brekky."
The door opened, and Keith, half his face covered in shaving cream, saw the plate of food and half-smiled. "Thanks, Rog," he said, taking the plate. "My favourite."
A beam of satisfaction spread across Roger's face, and he let Keith be, heading back to the room to get properly changed. But at the sight of John and Pete sprawled lazily across the couch, he stopped. "Come on, lads! Get yourselves ready to go."
The Ox groaned, and Pete just looked at Roger. "Why? Can't we just stay in? I feel like shite."
"Stay in? We're in the Big Apple! We can't just stay in. That's boring."
"Okay, let's just go to the bloody Statue of Liberty like a lot of fucking tourists. Again," griped John sarcastically. "We've been before!"
At that moment Keith emerged from the bedroom, hair still dripping wet and teeth gleaming white. Roger, for one reason or the other, couldn't take his eyes off him. "Oh, come on, lads. Rog is right, we could use some fresh air!"
"As fresh as a smoggy concrete jungle can ever be," muttered Pete.
But Rog was almost overjoyed with the idea that Keith wanted to go out too. Just the thought of roaming the famous New York with the drummer made him grin.
It took a bit more pleading, but eventually the other two gave in and heaved themselves off the couch to get ready. Roger exchanged glances with Keith and smiled hugely.
Keith's smile wasn't quite as huge.
- ~ -
Through the constant haze of the city smog, going outside actually did somewhat help Keith with his nasty hangover.
"Come on!" Roger shouted, leading the way for his mates down the city sidewalks. John lagged behind, Pete was somewhere between, and Keith tried his best to keep up with the lead singer even with a soft pretzel in his hands he had bought to snack on. It was a sunny July morning, perfect walking weather.
Keith was glad they'd decided to go out. Of course, the only alternative would be to stay cooped up in that tiny hotel, and with Roger acting so abnormally as he was now...
The drummer bit his lip, analyzing the situation again. Roger wasn't acting the same to the potion as the girl he'd first tested it on had. Perhaps he just lacked simulation from Keith's part, but Keith wasn't about to give him any.
How could a plan go so horribly wrong?
He didn't want to think about what was gonna happen to Rog. Given, it was his fault. But all the drummer'd wanted was a little passion out of his usually stoically-comical best mate, hopefully more than that, John. How was he going to get that with Rog all in his face?
Of course, he couldn't blame the singer for his actions. It was just the potion speaking, doing, acting...
The potion in which he'd fed Roger the entire bottle of.
"This way, lads," Roger said, leading the quartet down a series of stairs venturing beneath the city streets. They planned on taking a subway across the city into Manhattan, where there were apparently many places to go. Keith brightened up a bit, imagining a huge pizzeria to stuff his face or a giant toy shop to play games with John, and hurried after Rog's golden locks. They bought their subway tickets and waited by the nearest station.
They all sat, awaiting a train to come, and to Keith's dismay John sat to one side of him...while Rog sat to the other. He sighed, watching pedestrians pass by and drumming his hands on his legs. Suddenly the nearby squeak of a city rat startled Keith out of his seat. "Shit," he said, looking around warily. He hated rats.
"It's okay, it's only a little mouse," said Roger in a reassuring tone, and two hands gently brought Keith back down to his seat, lingering on his shoulders. The drummer looked at him and smiled dryly, trying to swallow. That glint, in Roger's eye... A nudge from his other arm. John. A raised eyebrow. What's going' on? Keith shrugged and almost imperceptibly shook his head, knowing the Ox would pick up.
Seconds turned into minutes, and soon nearly a half-hour passed without the band's subway train to Manhattan arriving. Pete kept glancing at his watch, wary of the time. "It's almost time for departure. The train's never late. Where could it be?"
"Wait." John's voice was weird. He stared wryly at the tickets. "These say Terminal Six..."
"This is Terminal Two!" Roger exclaimed, seeing the large sign above the stairs. At once all four band members sprung up, pivoting on their feet.
"Fuck! We're gonna miss it, oh shit..." Pete was squinting down the walkways in panic. "The train's supposed to be leaving right now! We're missing it!" They wouldn't get another subway for Manhattan for hours. This was their only chance.
"Shit! It's way down that way!" Roger hissed, starting in a sprint down the walkway, and Keith followed suit right at his heels. He maneuvered past people, shouting hushed "Excuse us"s and trying to keep up. They couldn't miss their train; how else would he get to the pizzeria or the giant toy store?
At last their terminal came into view, the last of the few passengers just getting on. Roger was the first in, spinning on his heels to urge the others faster. Keith got there next, and Roger grabbed his shoulders in a silent prayer of thanks. Keith shouted for the others to hurry. The doors would shut any second, the other two had to get there, or else --
The mechanical subway doors shut two seconds too late, and the train sped away, leaving John and Keith in the dust, and Roger and Keith by themselves in the subway car.
-to be continued-
- ~ -
Lol