Let My Love Open the Door
Okay, here it is, the conclusion to my somewhat epic trilogy. Epic angst, more like. It has been a very long time since I started this, so I would suggest a refresher course of the previous two before jumping into this one. It starts up right where the last one left off. Have fun!
Heh, apologies, but it is too freaking large to post in one go. Here is the first half, anyway, and I will post the rest right after.
Title: Let My Love Open the Door
Author: Acacia
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Pete/Roger, John/Keith
Time Period: 1975, on tour for Who by Numbers. Actually, I can be precise-the night of November 30, 1975.
Warnings: Discussions of a dub-con encounter, graphic sex, swearing, drinking, mentions of drug use, you know…par for the course.
Disclaimer: If I owned the Who, I would not be sitting in this tiny apartment making up shit about them shagging each other, I’ll tell you that much.
Summary: They have been in a band together for eleven years. Can they finally find some measure of happiness together?
Part 1: Two Names on a Screwed Up Piece of Paper
Part 2: Don’t Pretend that You Know Me
***
“…from the waist on down,” Roger tried to concentrate on the lyrics and not on the two men standing to the right and the left of him.
“…but I feel tired and bound,” he stared resolutely ahead. He definitely did not look at the dark haired man in the white jacket.
“…dreaming, of the day I can control myself.” Suddenly, Pete leap into the air and the abrupt movement in the corner of his eye caught Roger’s attention. He turned his head to watch and as Pete landed, their gaze met unexpectedly. Roger whipped his head away, but not before a strange tingling sensation had swept from the top of his head to the tips of his fingers. He was impulsively and unaccountably angry at the other man and stumbled over the next lyrics. He heard Keith snicker behind him through the crash of the drums and clenched his jaw, his anger pooling in his stomach and his fists.
He finished the last verse and sent the microphone flying in a smooth and practiced arc. Pete stumbled forward and in front of him as he landed a scissor kick awkwardly. Roger reversed the path of the microphone and threw it out in wider circle. It whirled past Pete’s head, inches from his ear. As Pete threw his head up in surprise, Roger pulled the microphone back in, caught it without looking above his own head and turned and left the stage.
***
Keith threw down his drum sticks in the crowded dressing room and began searching for a glass of water. Finally spying one between two scantily clad women who seemed to be more interested in each other than anyone associated with the band, Keith made a mental note of that, seized the glass and dumped the contents over his head. As the cool water coursed through his sweat soaked hair and down the back of his shirt, he relished the temporary relief from the heat of the set’s exertion. He wondered if shows had always been this physically demanding or whether he was just getting old.
Moonie, you’re getting philosophical. It must be time for booze and pills, not necessarily in that order, he thought as he scanned the room. He felt his heart racing from the pent up adrenaline of the show. Hmm, uppers or downers? That is the question. He spied a couple of blokes across the room that could always be counted on for a good night out and he thought about the two lovely ladies. I suppose it depends on whether good ol’ Johnny boy is interested in seeing the sights of…Bloomington, or wherever the hell we are. Or whether he thinks our hotel needs…redecorating. Where is the bloody bastard, anyway?
Keith searched the room for the familiar dark head. As he did so, an unfamiliar sense of unease began to creep up over him. He wasn’t the sort to think things through overmuch before doing them, he left that to Pete, but John had been rather skittish about spending time together lately and Keith figured that to get what he wanted, he needed to play his cards just right.
Keith pushed his way out to the hall, ignoring the calls of various friends, acquaintances and people who weren’t either but were eager to become at least one.
“Oi! Moon! I got some fireworks, how ‘bout it?”
“Hey, Keith, we thought you could settle this bet!”
“You look a bit lonely tonight, sugar, I could be some good company, if you like.”
He brushed them all off, feeling that old well-known urge to please, trying not to think about how only a few years ago he would have been making the rounds, up to his eyeballs in a fawning audience and more trouble than any of them could handle. With John tagging along, no doubt. Now here I am, dodging my spectators and trying to track down that slippery bastard…Oh!
Keith practically ran over the taller man, who was lurking in the hall just outside the doorway, smoking a crumpled cigarette cupped in his hand and holding a bottle of whiskey loosely in the other hand hanging by his side.
“Steady on, mate,” John said with a slow smile as Keith skittered to a stop. As soon as Keith caught his balance again, John solemnly held out the whiskey bottle to him. He took it and downed a quick gulp, suddenly aware of the pounding of blood deep in his ears.
He tried to rearrange his face into a jovial grin and affected a jaunty Irish brogue. “So, my lad, what be the plans for the party tonight? Unless the lad has a wee lass to hurry back to?”
A flicker of a smile crossed John’s face, hidden in his beard but passing briefly through his eyes. “Ahh, I don’t know, Keith, maybe we should just stay in.”
“Aha! A spoilsport, eh?” Keith attempted a poke to John’s ribs, but the bassist swatted his hand away without looking. “Worried about getting into too much trouble?”
At his words, John twitched and reached out his hand as if he was about to touch Keith’s face. He glanced away from the shorter man and his hand wandered aimlessly in the air for a moment before he pushed it through his dark hair and sighed.
“Yeah, worried about getting into trouble. Seems like I’ve been getting into too much trouble lately,” he muttered, almost to himself. Keith frowned, there was something that John was hiding from him, he could just tell and John never used to keep secrets. Not from him, at least.
“Well, maybe we can stay in, like the old days, huh?” Keith smiled at the memory. Those were the days, when the band wasn’t making any money at all, or at least not at the pace they were spending it. Kit and Chris would put them up in these godawful hotels in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do but get trashed and trash the joint. John hated it, he loved the limos and the jets and the five star hotels. But Keith missed it, missed the closeness they used to have. Nowadays, John always seemed a little standoffish, a little cold and while Keith wasn’t much for excessive introspection, he couldn’t help but feel that he was the cause of it all, somehow.
John opened his mouth, to decline, Keith thought, bitterly, to say he wants to be alone, but then he slowly closed it and smiled a sweet, open smile down at the seemingly irrepressible drummer. Something warm spread through him at the sight of that smile but he didn’t pause to dissect the feeling. “Actually, Keith, staying in sounds nice. Let me grab my coat and we can get out of here.”
It was incredible how happy John could make Keith feel with the slightest gesture. Sometimes he could get so angry and mean he almost scared himself. It was always John that could cheer him up or make him laugh with only a crooked eyebrow or a funny expression. Like most things in his life, it left Keith overcompensating. “Oh, this will be great. We can have a grand time, you should see all the stuff I’ve got. People just give it to me! You won’t believe it.” Keith bounded in front of John happily and walked backward ahead of him continuing to chatter as John made his way into the dressing room to retrieve his coat. “Bill thinks he has been confiscating it all, but he always throws it out at the same time and I have been planting aspirin and shit where he will…”
John brushed against Keith as he reached for his coat. Keith froze as the aftershocks of the touch reverberated down his spine, quite losing track of what he was saying.
Keith remembered when all he felt for John was the strong and enduring love of a man for his best mate. And he also remembered when his gaze started to linger a bit too long on the line of John’s leg in a tight pair of trousers. Or the way the corners of his mouth would quirk up when Keith did something outrageous and his eyebrows would lift just a fraction of an inch in incredulous mirth.
Keith Moon liked women. He liked their smell, their curves, the soft, prettiness of them. But women were always demanded things of Keith that he couldn’t quite remember or want to do. They were always choosing other men over him. Or else, they came and went in a never ending parade, faces that barely made an impression once the night was through and the sober morning dawned.
It didn’t perturb him to speculate that things might be better with someone who was already his friend. Who was as steady and undemanding as a rock. Not that he would ever tell John. Oh God, I can just see how that would go. Oh hey, John, your best friend, who has shared countless hotel rooms with you is a pouf. And moreover, he would like to shag you. That would probably end well. Keith made a face.
“Is everything all right?” The rumble of John’s voice caused the shivers to pick up again and head straight to his groin by way of his stomach. What is wrong with you? Keith thought, get a fucking hold of yourself.
“Uh, yeah, just caught a glimpse of that redhead over there. Just wondering if the carpet matches the drapes, if you know what I mean,” he stuttered, trying to waggle his eyebrows suggestively. Stupid. Look, now he is grinning down at you like you are a bloody eight year old. Real smooth, Moon.
“Come on, Keith, let’s get out of here.”
***
The knock on Roger’s hotel room door seemed unnaturally loud in the still quiet of the expansive suite. Roger jumped a little, his heart racing from the unexpected interruption. He stared at the door, wondering who he hoped and feared might be knocking, more than a little disturbed at the thought that they might be the same person.
There had been a girl here earlier, but she must have left when Roger made it clear that all he was going to do that night was sit on the edge of the bed and study the carpet. Besides, underneath the makeup and the low cut blouse, Roger had seen the slightly deadened, glazed look in her eyes and the small lines around her lips from holding them too tight.
“You don’t need this,” he had whispered, wondering vaguely when he had started caring what the groupies needed. “Where are you from?”
“Bremen, Indiana.” She looked distinctly surprised at the question and Roger could tell that she was a practiced one, one who knew all too well how these things tended to happened. It made him feel tired.
“Isn’t there a nice boy in Bremen waiting for you?” There usually was. The softer, the less practiced girls would usually break down afterwards and tell him about it.
She had lifted her chin defiantly. “I am not going back there.”
Roger chuckled a little, thinking about Acton and how far away it seemed at the moment. “Yeah, of course, doll. But maybe he is willing to come with you where ever you are going.”
She looked thoughtful and got up to go sit on the suite’s sofa. Roger resumed staring at the floor. After awhile, now that he thought about it, he had heard the door to the room open and shut softly.
The knock sounded again, more insistent this time, breaking into his recollections. “I know you’re in there. You might as well open up.” The voice was muffled, but not muffled enough to keep Roger from identifying it. He sighed and got to his feet unsteadily to go open the door.
He wrenched the door open, feeling a stirring of self-righteous annoyance at being disturbed. Pete stood outside, his fist raised mid-knock, a look of surprise on his face.
“What do you want?” he demanded.
Pete looked slightly off his stride at Roger’s tone but he did his best to recover his own indignation. “What was that out there on stage? What are you trying to prove?”
“God, Pete, I don’t know,” he sighed and rubbed his face with one hand. He had regretted the microphone stunt as soon as he had left the stage and cooled off a little. Not in the least because Pete would want an explanation. “I guess I was just a little angry with you…with everybody.”
“A little angry?” Pete’s eyebrows were attempting to crawl up his forehead. “You could have clobbered me!”
Roger snorted. “Pete, I could pick a fly off your nose at ten paces and, with your nose, that’s saying something. You weren’t in any danger.”
Pete looked as if he wanted to take issue with the nose remark, but instead forcibly made himself let it go. “I…hell, I actually came to apologize, Roger.”
“Apologize.” Roger’s voice was flat with disbelief.
“For kissing you,” Pete swallowed hard and looked away. “I thought…well, it seemed as though you were as lonely as…” he trailed off. Roger watched him carefully. “I guess you were right. I don’t really know what I want.”
Roger smiled sadly at the melancholy in Pete’s voice and felt the same flow of protective affection towards the gangly man as he had all those years ago when Pete had shown up in his house to audition, all awkward self-consciousness and simmering brilliance. “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to hit you. You just surprised me, is all.” Roger shifted uncomfortably. “And scared me, too, a little.”
Pete raised his head and pinned Roger in his penetrating blue stare. “Tell me what is wrong, Roger. Stop this charade. We both know what a terrible liar you are.”
Roger hesitated, but he couldn’t help but admit to himself that telling someone else what had happened might come as a relief. God knows I have chased it around so many times in my head that I need a fresh perspective. He steadied himself.
“I slept with John, Pete.”
Pete inhaled sharply. “That sounds like a monumentally dumb thing to do,” he replied with a forced nonchalance.
Roger searched his expression for any indication of what the guitarist was thinking, but his face was a carefully schooled blank slate.
He looked up at the ceiling. “You have no idea.”
“What…” Pete coughed to clear his throat and then began again. “What happened?”
Roger could feel the beginnings of a flush creeping up his neck. Suddenly, the room was very, very warm and he did everything he could to avoid meeting Pete’s eyes. He says I’m a terrible liar. Well, let’s see if he buys this one… “Do you remember when John got mad and stormed off the stage in Dallas?”
Pete frowned slightly and then said slowly, “Yeah…we had to send someone to persuade him to come back for the encore. He was pretty pissed. He threw his bass…at you.”
“Well, he confronted me backstage after,” Roger said softly, studying his fingernails. “At first we were fighting. Then…well, then we weren’t fighting anymore.”
He looked up in time to see Pete, staring into space, blink rapidly a few times. He looked as though he was trying to think of something to say and reaching a blank. Finally, just as the silence was becoming uncomfortable enough to make Roger shift nervously, Pete responded, “So that’s all? That’s what has had the two of you jumpy as cats around each other these past weeks?”
“All!?” Roger yelped, indignantly. “Pete, I don’t think you heard me. I slept with John.”
“Oh, I heard. But it isn’t like you to get so hung up on these sorts of things.” There was an odd note in Pete’s voice and Roger got the impression that the other man’s casualness might not be entirely genuine.
Roger snorted. “Well, he is a bloke. I think it calls for some introspection.”
Pete half shrugged and waved a hand as though dismissing Roger’s gender-based concerns as a matter of course. As Pete opened his mouth for more undoubtedly probing questions, Roger felt a swell of exhaustion overwhelm him. He really was in no mood for Pete’s grilling and this exchange wasn’t making anything clearer to him.
“Look, Pete. I will answer any damn thing you like later. But right now it’s late and I’m tired and we have a long day tomorrow. Can you just leave? Please?”
Pete looked as if he were about to argue but then he just shook his head. “Sure, Roger. Whatever you want. I’ll see you later. Get some rest.”
***
Pete closed the door to Roger’s room almost gingerly and then stared at it blankly, desperately trying to process the emotions that were teeming through him like bees. Surprise warred with apprehension and anger but it was the overriding surge of jealousy that disturbed him the most. He had a powerful urge to go and find John and…what, Pete? Beat him up like an overprotective brother? He pinched the bridge of his nose. No, not like a brother. Not like a brother at all.
He turned to go, feeling the nagging sensation of some epiphany dawning. It was almost like a song and he knew enough that if he just got his brain out of the way it would come. Finally, as he got into the elevator to return to his own room, it arrived and he could nearly smack himself for his blindness. Pete fell back against the wall of the elevator and stared up at the flickering fluorescent light, wondering to himself when exactly he was so stupid to go and fall in love with Roger Daltrey.
Well, that complicates things.