(no subject)
Title: Spirals
Author: Amanda
Rating: R
Pairings: Mige/Ville, Ville/Bam
Genre: Angst, Mizee's POV.
AN: Not mine, don't own, didn't happen, whatever. Feedback is desired.
A lot of people don’t know about the spiral notebooks.
Everyone knows about the songs he writes, hiding behind verses involving broken hearts and poison kisses and wounded souls. They inspire boys to sway in sweat-soaked tangles of limbs and carefully-styled hair in the crowds, reaching for him like he’s a god stalking around in dark trousers and brocade jackets from expensive boutiques, chainsmoking and breathing with a slight hitch from his stubborn asthma. They incite girls to pull off their underwear and throw them onstage, bras hanging from his mic-stand, their eyeliner smudged just like his, hair grown long and worn under a knit beanie to copy his trademark image from a few albums ago, young breasts heaving under tight shirts bearing heartagrams on them. I was there when he sketched that, on his birthday so long ago, the pen doodling on a napkin, just a little drawing that meant nothing then and means everything now.
Everyone knows about the songs. The critics either exalt him as a dark messiah, talk about the new prince of darkness, the hordes of teenagers who follow him like lemmings and who would slit their own throats if he purred that it would make them closer to him--- or they shred him limb from limb, snidely counting the number of times any given album says poison, kiss, soul, fire, love, funeral, dark, tears, drown, the words that have made up his entire way of life since before we met. He puts on this front I really admire; the rest of us, we haven’t got the balls or the willpower to do it. Linde, he hides behind his mane of tangled knotty hair and the only time you’ll get him to say ‘pussy’ is if he’s singing a Daniel Lioneye song; Gas is a terrific songwriter but you’ll never see him on a credit for our band--- this is Ville’s playground and he is the only one allowed to tread on that particular area. We can put in input on anything else, but the lyrics… they’re his. He has this air about him, a total fuckin’ classic rock star, and when magazines ask him about his songwriting, call it trite mallgoth poetry, he grits his teeth and says ‘Fuck you, it’s rock ‘n roll, we don’t care what you think, we’d be happy playing venues of 200 instead of 15,000-person festivals’ but I know he’s lying. It’s in the way his hand trembles when he lights a new cigarette and the way his green eyes meet nothing but see everything.
He’s been doing the notebooks since before I met him. I can recall so many little things that seemed stupid at the time about those first few years before we could finish each other’s sentences; the two of us struggling over maths in school before we dropped out, or listening to a new Led Zeppelin record lying on the floor of his room, or staying over for dinner with his parents and brother. I remember when Ville got his very first apartment of his own, a little shitheap in a dodgy area, and he wanted me to move in with him straight-away so that we could focus on writing music together. I slept on a couch for a month. We'd fall asleep on each other near dawn, watching bad horror movies we rented on our small TV and curled up together on the shitty couch. But I can still remember how he felt beside me like that, his long hair tickling my cheek, him holding my hand when I got my nose pierced and likewise me sitting there nursing a Karhu or five while he got his sleeve done, drawling in drunken Finnish and talking about a new poem he'd written. Because yes, there's always been the music, but there's poetry too, and not many know that. Ville's kept notebooks for years. He has more than a schoolboy studying something very difficult. Probably even more than Novak has, even though Brandon wrote out a book by hand in them. Ville still writes in them, he's just shy about talking on it. His poems used to be really dark and utterly bleak, like a lot of his songs, but he hides his angst behind my bass lines and Burton's keyboards and Linde's guitar-work and Gas's drumming.
If it's masked by excellent riffs, pain always sounds bearable.
Ville used to curl up beside me with a spiral notebook across his thighs, chewing the cap of a pen as he thought, twirling strands of hair around his fingers. He always had one open, even seemed to sleep with one within arm’s reach in case inspiration struck in his dreams. He never let me or anyone else read them, guarded them fiercely, and of course that made me want to read them all the more. We were growing up together, the music refining itself like spun sugar that melted on your tongue; everything was coming together so well, gigs falling into our laps, and I started to see him, really see him, when he took up the spotlight for the band. I watched him primp in front of a mirror, licking sticks of kohl to smear beneath his amazing eyes, crunching his unwashed hair with both hands and then finally tugging the beanie down over it, a look which was more from lack of bathing and unwilling to show his oily roots on a magazine cover but later became a fashion staple of our music, and I realized what they saw in him. Fuck, I saw him day in and day out and I still wanted posters of him on my walls. He was delicate, treading the line between girl and boy; he’d bitch about chipped nail polish, but swear like a sailor and bring home porn from his dad’s shop. I started to fantasize what he might be writing in that notebook; was it love poetry about me? Sometimes I would look up and catch vibrant emeralds watching me. He was like a cat in the dark, always alert but liquid, sprawled across the furniture, lazy, but at a moment’s notice he would be nuzzled against you, eager to do something, begging you to relieve his boredom. I wondered if he could ever find me attractive, then dismissed it. After all, he was Ville fucking Valo. He was on magazine covers on several continents, he was an undisputed sex symbol, and every night he came home reeking of cigarettes and booze, curling up next to me on the mattress and playing with my longish hair as he told me stories of his night in low, soothing, drunken melodies, his voice lulling as a drug. I could’ve listened to him for hours. And then, in the morning, when the haze of his drunk wore off, he’d lie on his belly on the bed, writing feverishly in his notebook, recalling the night before, I imagined. I tried not to think of the lips he’d kissed, the hands that had touched him. After all, he wasn’t mine. But a few months later, he was approaching me onstage, the sexual tension thick enough to slice with a razorblade, and after the encore he mashed me back against the wall behind the amps, kissed me hungrily, and he tasted like I always knew he would; nicotine, Kahru, the sweat that had beaded on his top lip, the faintly sticky flavor of his lipgloss. I kissed him back but didn’t dare hope it could be real. I still didn’t believe it the next day when I woke up beside him in bed, that naked fragile body tangled in the sheets, his hand still on the fleshy curve of my hip. He was so tiny beside me, lanky, and his hipbones sharp enough to cut yourself on; I was clumsy and graceless beside him, but he never seemed to mind. The months wore on and our touching progressed to kissing onstage, to playful grinding, to flaunting it, daring anyone to give us shit. And every night, post-fucking, my sweat drying on him, my tongue still tasting of his seawater cum, he’d curl up with his notebook and a pen and write. I watched him, wondered what thoughts were coming in the thin link between his brain and his tattooed hand. I never asked to read them.
After one of his customary visits to West Chester to hang out with Bam, he brought the skater back with him. Bam and Ville stayed up all night drinking with me, laughing, telling stories, the two of us teaching Bam to swear in Finnish, Ville painstakingly painting Bam’s toenails black to match his own, applying eyeliner around those striking blue eyes. I finally dozed off sometime, and when I woke up, they were gone. The bedroom door was closed. I went to it and opened it. And there they were; Bam buried between those slender white thighs, his muscular back working with effort, his tattooed arms holding him up as he fucked my lover, Ville biting down on his lips until they looked swollen and porn-star slutty, his amazing green eyes shut. Neither of them saw me. I shut the door and went to sit on the couch. The space beside me suddenly felt very empty, and I couldn’t picture Ville curled up beside me in it watching Dawn of the Dead with me, laughing at the zombies and playing with his hair like a bored teenage girl, braiding strands of it and then undoing it all over again. All I could envision was Bam, with his skinny muscled body and mischievous eyes and loud mouth, the fact that he wouldn’t watch those films with Ville and the one time Ville had asked him to go get him a pack of cigarettes from the corner shop Bam had groaned, bitched, refused to get out of bed, sufficiently complained until I finally just went myself.
I knew where he kept them. Each time he filled one, he put it in the bottom shelf of the cabinet holding his record collection, behind the ones he never listened to. I went there now, unwary of getting caught; I knew they were still fucking, that Ville probably had his mouth on Bam’s cock now, which was bigger than mine and his stomach flatter anyway, that Bam might have his fingers inside Ville’s ass even though he wouldn’t know the little wrist-flick trick I did, something I’d perfected on the strings of my bass and worked wonders on my gorgeous lover as well.
I pulled open the notebook, found the dates.
I think I’m in love with Migé.
I grab the next notebook, more recent. The pages turn in my hands and they sound like whispered cries of pleasure that are meant for ears other than mine.
I don’t know how to tell him that I love Bam.
I shut the notebook, put it back where it belongs. He wrote that four months ago. That’s over one hundred and twenty days ago. About one hundred and forty fucks ago, he knew he didn’t love me.
Everyone asks our inspiration, and Ville gives them the same answer. Life. People he’s known, people he’s loved, pain he’s experienced. The songs are that way. But no one asks about the music. They never ask what inspires a particularly chilling bassline, or why sometimes when I’m running my fingers a certain way, I just can’t return that smile Ville sends me from his mic-stand.
A lot of people don’t know about the spiral notebooks.
Those of us who do don’t have to ask where the songs come from.
We know.
Author: Amanda
Rating: R
Pairings: Mige/Ville, Ville/Bam
Genre: Angst, Mizee's POV.
AN: Not mine, don't own, didn't happen, whatever. Feedback is desired.
A lot of people don’t know about the spiral notebooks.
Everyone knows about the songs he writes, hiding behind verses involving broken hearts and poison kisses and wounded souls. They inspire boys to sway in sweat-soaked tangles of limbs and carefully-styled hair in the crowds, reaching for him like he’s a god stalking around in dark trousers and brocade jackets from expensive boutiques, chainsmoking and breathing with a slight hitch from his stubborn asthma. They incite girls to pull off their underwear and throw them onstage, bras hanging from his mic-stand, their eyeliner smudged just like his, hair grown long and worn under a knit beanie to copy his trademark image from a few albums ago, young breasts heaving under tight shirts bearing heartagrams on them. I was there when he sketched that, on his birthday so long ago, the pen doodling on a napkin, just a little drawing that meant nothing then and means everything now.
Everyone knows about the songs. The critics either exalt him as a dark messiah, talk about the new prince of darkness, the hordes of teenagers who follow him like lemmings and who would slit their own throats if he purred that it would make them closer to him--- or they shred him limb from limb, snidely counting the number of times any given album says poison, kiss, soul, fire, love, funeral, dark, tears, drown, the words that have made up his entire way of life since before we met. He puts on this front I really admire; the rest of us, we haven’t got the balls or the willpower to do it. Linde, he hides behind his mane of tangled knotty hair and the only time you’ll get him to say ‘pussy’ is if he’s singing a Daniel Lioneye song; Gas is a terrific songwriter but you’ll never see him on a credit for our band--- this is Ville’s playground and he is the only one allowed to tread on that particular area. We can put in input on anything else, but the lyrics… they’re his. He has this air about him, a total fuckin’ classic rock star, and when magazines ask him about his songwriting, call it trite mallgoth poetry, he grits his teeth and says ‘Fuck you, it’s rock ‘n roll, we don’t care what you think, we’d be happy playing venues of 200 instead of 15,000-person festivals’ but I know he’s lying. It’s in the way his hand trembles when he lights a new cigarette and the way his green eyes meet nothing but see everything.
He’s been doing the notebooks since before I met him. I can recall so many little things that seemed stupid at the time about those first few years before we could finish each other’s sentences; the two of us struggling over maths in school before we dropped out, or listening to a new Led Zeppelin record lying on the floor of his room, or staying over for dinner with his parents and brother. I remember when Ville got his very first apartment of his own, a little shitheap in a dodgy area, and he wanted me to move in with him straight-away so that we could focus on writing music together. I slept on a couch for a month. We'd fall asleep on each other near dawn, watching bad horror movies we rented on our small TV and curled up together on the shitty couch. But I can still remember how he felt beside me like that, his long hair tickling my cheek, him holding my hand when I got my nose pierced and likewise me sitting there nursing a Karhu or five while he got his sleeve done, drawling in drunken Finnish and talking about a new poem he'd written. Because yes, there's always been the music, but there's poetry too, and not many know that. Ville's kept notebooks for years. He has more than a schoolboy studying something very difficult. Probably even more than Novak has, even though Brandon wrote out a book by hand in them. Ville still writes in them, he's just shy about talking on it. His poems used to be really dark and utterly bleak, like a lot of his songs, but he hides his angst behind my bass lines and Burton's keyboards and Linde's guitar-work and Gas's drumming.
If it's masked by excellent riffs, pain always sounds bearable.
Ville used to curl up beside me with a spiral notebook across his thighs, chewing the cap of a pen as he thought, twirling strands of hair around his fingers. He always had one open, even seemed to sleep with one within arm’s reach in case inspiration struck in his dreams. He never let me or anyone else read them, guarded them fiercely, and of course that made me want to read them all the more. We were growing up together, the music refining itself like spun sugar that melted on your tongue; everything was coming together so well, gigs falling into our laps, and I started to see him, really see him, when he took up the spotlight for the band. I watched him primp in front of a mirror, licking sticks of kohl to smear beneath his amazing eyes, crunching his unwashed hair with both hands and then finally tugging the beanie down over it, a look which was more from lack of bathing and unwilling to show his oily roots on a magazine cover but later became a fashion staple of our music, and I realized what they saw in him. Fuck, I saw him day in and day out and I still wanted posters of him on my walls. He was delicate, treading the line between girl and boy; he’d bitch about chipped nail polish, but swear like a sailor and bring home porn from his dad’s shop. I started to fantasize what he might be writing in that notebook; was it love poetry about me? Sometimes I would look up and catch vibrant emeralds watching me. He was like a cat in the dark, always alert but liquid, sprawled across the furniture, lazy, but at a moment’s notice he would be nuzzled against you, eager to do something, begging you to relieve his boredom. I wondered if he could ever find me attractive, then dismissed it. After all, he was Ville fucking Valo. He was on magazine covers on several continents, he was an undisputed sex symbol, and every night he came home reeking of cigarettes and booze, curling up next to me on the mattress and playing with my longish hair as he told me stories of his night in low, soothing, drunken melodies, his voice lulling as a drug. I could’ve listened to him for hours. And then, in the morning, when the haze of his drunk wore off, he’d lie on his belly on the bed, writing feverishly in his notebook, recalling the night before, I imagined. I tried not to think of the lips he’d kissed, the hands that had touched him. After all, he wasn’t mine. But a few months later, he was approaching me onstage, the sexual tension thick enough to slice with a razorblade, and after the encore he mashed me back against the wall behind the amps, kissed me hungrily, and he tasted like I always knew he would; nicotine, Kahru, the sweat that had beaded on his top lip, the faintly sticky flavor of his lipgloss. I kissed him back but didn’t dare hope it could be real. I still didn’t believe it the next day when I woke up beside him in bed, that naked fragile body tangled in the sheets, his hand still on the fleshy curve of my hip. He was so tiny beside me, lanky, and his hipbones sharp enough to cut yourself on; I was clumsy and graceless beside him, but he never seemed to mind. The months wore on and our touching progressed to kissing onstage, to playful grinding, to flaunting it, daring anyone to give us shit. And every night, post-fucking, my sweat drying on him, my tongue still tasting of his seawater cum, he’d curl up with his notebook and a pen and write. I watched him, wondered what thoughts were coming in the thin link between his brain and his tattooed hand. I never asked to read them.
After one of his customary visits to West Chester to hang out with Bam, he brought the skater back with him. Bam and Ville stayed up all night drinking with me, laughing, telling stories, the two of us teaching Bam to swear in Finnish, Ville painstakingly painting Bam’s toenails black to match his own, applying eyeliner around those striking blue eyes. I finally dozed off sometime, and when I woke up, they were gone. The bedroom door was closed. I went to it and opened it. And there they were; Bam buried between those slender white thighs, his muscular back working with effort, his tattooed arms holding him up as he fucked my lover, Ville biting down on his lips until they looked swollen and porn-star slutty, his amazing green eyes shut. Neither of them saw me. I shut the door and went to sit on the couch. The space beside me suddenly felt very empty, and I couldn’t picture Ville curled up beside me in it watching Dawn of the Dead with me, laughing at the zombies and playing with his hair like a bored teenage girl, braiding strands of it and then undoing it all over again. All I could envision was Bam, with his skinny muscled body and mischievous eyes and loud mouth, the fact that he wouldn’t watch those films with Ville and the one time Ville had asked him to go get him a pack of cigarettes from the corner shop Bam had groaned, bitched, refused to get out of bed, sufficiently complained until I finally just went myself.
I knew where he kept them. Each time he filled one, he put it in the bottom shelf of the cabinet holding his record collection, behind the ones he never listened to. I went there now, unwary of getting caught; I knew they were still fucking, that Ville probably had his mouth on Bam’s cock now, which was bigger than mine and his stomach flatter anyway, that Bam might have his fingers inside Ville’s ass even though he wouldn’t know the little wrist-flick trick I did, something I’d perfected on the strings of my bass and worked wonders on my gorgeous lover as well.
I pulled open the notebook, found the dates.
I think I’m in love with Migé.
I grab the next notebook, more recent. The pages turn in my hands and they sound like whispered cries of pleasure that are meant for ears other than mine.
I don’t know how to tell him that I love Bam.
I shut the notebook, put it back where it belongs. He wrote that four months ago. That’s over one hundred and twenty days ago. About one hundred and forty fucks ago, he knew he didn’t love me.
Everyone asks our inspiration, and Ville gives them the same answer. Life. People he’s known, people he’s loved, pain he’s experienced. The songs are that way. But no one asks about the music. They never ask what inspires a particularly chilling bassline, or why sometimes when I’m running my fingers a certain way, I just can’t return that smile Ville sends me from his mic-stand.
A lot of people don’t know about the spiral notebooks.
Those of us who do don’t have to ask where the songs come from.
We know.