(no subject)
the academy is; writing santi, 2006 (mike / william )
sleeping with giants 1532 words, pg
William Beckett is not obsessive compulsive, he is not.
He simply wishes for things to be kind of, a little bit, somewhat, as close as possible to being perfect.
He looks for it in chords, in the music notes that play in his head but don't quite make it out, in that first strum on his old beat up acoustic that is never the same the second time his fingers hit the strings. He looks for it in the way the drums sound, deafening and hollow and echoing around him, and the way Sisky flicks a thumb over thick strings, pulls at them with careful precision and the sound bounces off the walls, seeps into his skin and plays in his chest. It could be perfect, William thinks, it could be perfect but there is always something slightly off.
If the sound isn't right, he will glance back at his lyric book, make sure that the words written in his sloppy unreadable scrawl still make sense to him. Most of the time, he finds that the words melt together, the thoughts are unclear, the feeling he got when he wrote that chorus has suddenly disappeared. Most of the time, he finds that his words are once again, lacking.
"Can we not -- I mean, can we just do this one, this song tomorrow? Maybe, just work it out another day? I don't -- don't really think it sounds right, I have to, have to fix things." He only tells Mike this, whispers it in a secret meeting in the corner of the room, and chews nervously on his bottom lip, awaiting a response. "It's just--" William shakes his head hopelessly and shrugs heavy shoulders with a sigh. Mike nods, once, twice, and pats William on the back with a smile.
When he gets like this, when Bill starts to hyperventilate because a word in the verse sounds different than he thought it would, all Mike can really do is clear his throat and alert the boys that it's not going the right way, they'll do that other song now, the one about the party.
"I can't do this," William says later, after everyone's left him and Mike alone in the factory, alone in the semi-dark of the huge empty room. Their instruments are scattered around, left helpless and immobile, offering no help to William's creative dilemma. Most of the lights are broken, but he likes it better that way. He likes it better when no one can see him screw this up. "I just can't, I don't-- " he sighs helplessly, a sigh Mike never likes hearing and tries again. "I don't know what to write, I don't know what to say, everything sounds stupid and none of it really means anything and, and just help me out, man, I don't even know what I'm doing here anymore."
William Beckett is a jumble of nerves and clumsiness, uncomfortable silences, awkward movements, but he is always moving. Pacing, back and fourth, up and down, tapping his feet, drumming fingers on any and all available surfaces. He is the off-beat sound in a perfectly synched tune, the un-tuned guitar that sounds about right, the crash a broken symbol makes.
Still, in his off-beat, awkward twitchy sort of existence, William Beckett is obsessive compulsive, he is.
He'll tap his left foot three times, then tap his right three times to even it out. He'll cough, then cough again because the first one was weak. He'll blink systematically. He'll annoy Mike to no extent with his random little ticks, his mumbling under his breath, his woeful sighs and fallen shoulders. Sooner or later, Mike thinks, sooner or later, he will break under the weight of his shoulders, perfect as they may be, broad and steady and arched in a way shoulders should not be arched, in a way Mike thinks was made only for William, in a way that he knows, perfect as they may be, can't stand too much pressure.
William is pacing the room, taking light steps and heavy steps in a premeditated pattern. His hands are buried deep in jeans so tight it takes a certain amount of skill to wear them, skill no one else in the world possesses. Maybe Pete, but probably not. Under his vest, he scratches at the skin on his chest, pulls his v-neck down and holds a hand over his heart, making sure it's still beating.
Always dramatic.
"Come here," Mike says, his voice hidden under the perpetual raspy-ness of his smoker's cough. There is a slight sternness in his tone, but he's smiling, leaning against one of the shorter amps and William walks with ease towards him, still on edge, still systematically moving, chewing nervously on the inside of his cheek.
He takes a deep breath and looks up at Bill who, though he is much taller, always seems to shrink in the presence of Mike Carden. Not exactly shrink, he does something else, something that is usually accompanied by a smirk and flushed cheeks, something more like melting.
"You think that nobody noticed the way that you walk around this place, defeated?" William can feel the lecture. Even Mike can feel the need to raise his voice a little, shake his head incredulously and shout at Bill for being a complete idiot about the whole thing. But he doesn't.
He puts his hands on either side of Bill's hips, pulls him closer and kisses his collar bone. He says, in the kindest whisper, "This isn't a one man band, you know that right?" And William nods, shortly, softly, defeated.
"We're all in this together, Bill, we're all a team here, and if you don't know what to do, we're here to tell you. If it doesn't sound good, we'll fix it, and if we can't fix it -- fuck, it doesn't matter. We've got other songs, you've got other thoughts." Mike would like to stand up straight, extend his arms to Bill's shoulders, his perfect fucking shoulders, and shake the shit out of him, but he doesn't.
William is nervous and quiet and he nods in this annoying twelve-year-old-being-scorned-for-not-doing-his-homework kind of way.
His voice is meek and trembling when he speaks; a low sound that surprises Mike's ears because he expected something better, something stronger, not leaves on a violent wind. "You always know what to say," William murmurs, kissing the top of Mike's head.
His OCD, his inane low self confidence, it all gets on Mike's nerves, but he just pulls William down by the buttons on the grey-blue vest he wore too many times on Warped Tour (it still smells like sun tan lotion and the roar of a crowd) and he kisses him harshly on the mouth.
Hands move to hair, and Mike really wishes that William would do something about his because it is long and unmanageable and impossible to run your fingers through. He grabs a fistful of William's knotty curls and recalls just a few months ago when they were subtle waves, shiny and soft and tickling his face all the time. Sometimes William Beckett needs a good smack upside his big head, and sometimes, well sometimes he just needs to be kissed.
His teeth scrape over William's already swollen bottom lip, and he smiles against crooked front teeth. Mike snickers, giggles almost, and manages to bite William on the neck, to which he actually says, "Ow," and gets a bit abusive.
"Hey!" Mike laughs, pulling Bill's hands away from his throat, "Hey, are you okay? Are you with me?"
William scowls, his eyes narrow, his lips pursed together but red and glistening. "Not at all. I hate it when you do that."
"Only because it shuts you up." They exchange smiles and William kisses the corner of Mike's eye, his nose, his jaw. "Now-- hey, Bill, I'm serious now. You can't-- stop that. William," he says, sternly, but still smiling. "I know you can do this, you can stop freaking out, stop being a perfectionist and just do it. We didn't watch the Matrix so many times so you could try to do things right, and we didn't start this band so you could get scared once we start getting somewhere. I know you, I know you're having your William Beckett doubts and you're restless, and tired, but we're-- fuck, Bill, we're sleeping with giants now, we're in the big leagues." He stops to shrug his shoulders and wrap his arms tighter around William's waist. There should be music playing, some inspiring orchestral music, in the background. And wind, there should be an unexplained wind in the room.
"You know those polaroids you used to take," Mike asks, "the ones you'd slide under the bedroom door? Those were just moments, just moments in time captured on film. This is just another moment, and it'll be over soon."
William bites his bottom lip, sighs a relieved kind of sigh, and closes his eyes, but he's listening. Mike kisses him on the mouth and holds him closer. "We are all in this together, and you are never alone. I'm right here, always but you-- you've got to find a way."
--
Another short one, and for that I apologise, but some thoughts refuse to leave my head.
photo from theacademyis.com: april seventeenth, two thousand and six