Dance With Me
Title: Dance With Me
Rating: PG Pairing: Morrissey/Trent Reznor
Summary: Trent Reznor decides to pay a visit to a music idol of his.
darkbloom and myself have been working on a little project involving Morrissey and the oh so sexy Trent Reznor (of Nine Inch Nails)
Set during Vauxhall and I era for the Moz, co-ensiding with The Downward Spiral for Trent..
-
Trent stared out at the stage from his spot at the side of the stage, stationed near a bored looking audio assistant. He had arrived half an hour after the show started, preferring to sneak in while the band was already onstage instead of hanging about while they were waiting to go out to play. He shifted slightly as he leaned against a metal rack of equipment, dark hair falling partly in his face as he watched the man on stage reaching out to his fans, coyly encouraging them to join him on stage. He smiled slightly as one fan did manage to get past security and onto the stage, nearly squashing the singer onstage in their enthusiasm to hug the man. A few security guards rushed out from the wings where Trent was standing the remove the overeager fan from the stage.
“It’s like clockwork every time.”
“What?” Trent turned his head to look at the audio assistant, who had spoken.
“The fans, they rush the stage, trying to get up, trying so hard. They finally get there only to be removed from the stage, from the theatre. It’s futile to want something you know you can’t have.” The man explained. Trent thought on the comment for a moment, his noise of assent was lost in the noise of the crowd as another song started. Strange that the man could make a comment that was so seemingly mundane, looking at one subject and unknowingly state his own dilemma.
Why was he here? Because he had wanted to meet a man he had admired for so long? Maybe, but there was still something else. Sure, he had the privilege to go backstage, wait in the wings during the concert, get the VIP treatment, but in reality, he was probably better suited to be out amongst the fans in the front row, trying to get closer to something they dreamed about.
He huffed as he crossed his arms, head tilting forward to hide his face behind a curtain of jet black hair. And he stood there, watching, waiting. He pushed away from the rack he was leaning against, feeling suddenly antsy as it was obvious that the performance onstage was about to end. He paced for a moment as he watched the singer onstage writhe on the floor of the stage, his shirt in shreds, bunches of flowers being tossed onto the stage, some not quite making it and falling short of the stage, to be picked up by other fans to be thrown.
“I don’t belong here.” He muttered to himself. The audio assistant gave him a puzzled look as Trent turned from the side of the stage, heading further backstage, away from the noise and color. He was the flip side of the coin of what was on that stage. Melancholy and sadness were certainly in evidence, but while the singer onstage preferred softer, lighter ways to express it, the singer backstage was the darker, grittier side of that coin. He was so lost within his own musings as he wandered he didn’t even hear the band say goodnight, the singer saying his goodbyes, and the sudden rush of activity around him as things moved backstage. He was shoved and elbowed by a massive security guy before he ended up wedged into the dressing room with a couple of photographers and a few of the members of the band.
“Fucking hell you great big walking wall.” Trent cursed at the man who didn’t even seem to react.
“Aw, don’t be bothered by him, the wanker’s a total idiot,” one of the guys said, as Trent made a face, massaging an arm that had got banged up while he got shoved around. The man who had spoken offered his hand.
“Name’s Gaz. I don’t remember seeing you before the show but I recognize ya, got a name, mate?” Trent gave the security man a nasty look but left off without comment before turning his entire attention to Gaz.
“Yeah, Trent,” he said as he shook Gary’s hand, giving the bassist a smile.
“Oh, yeah, that’s it; you’re from that band, whatsit... um…” Gary replied as his face lit up, and then became puzzled as he tried to think.
“Nine Inch Nails. Yeah, that’s me.” Trent laughed as the rest of the group came into the room, Gary deciding to take up introducing Trent to the rest of them.
“Boz, Alain, this is Trent from that group Nine Inch Nails.” Gary introduced as the two came in, Trent offering his hand, shaking with the two.
“Hi there,” he said softly with a smile before turning to Alain as he asked a question.
“So what brings you here?”
“I just wanted to watch the show really but I got here a bit late. So I just came backstage to watch. Been a fan of the Smiths for a long time, you guys were great too.” Trent replied.
A downward smile, shy. Could this really be the man who Trent had seen dancing wildly and ripping off colorful shirts just a short while ago? Alain and Gary excused themselves to go to the bar, closing the door behind them. And then they were alone. The dressing room was plain. No great demands, but, Trent noted with fascination, several different varieties of tea. He examined a teal-blue teapot, a silver tea strainer, forgetting his host. Morrissey reminded Trent of his presence with a soft chuckle.
Trent looked up, embarrassed and surprised at Morrissey, who was watching him with a slightly wry smile. Arms folded and totally self-possessed. Could this really be the man who’d been so shy moments ago? Trent was fascinated.
Trent attempted to regain some ground.
“Is tea the Brit equivalent of coke and hookers?”
“How could one ever compare the sensual pleasures of tea to those dull pursuits?”
Hand brushed through the quiff, smirk at own joke.
“Of course I have been looking forward to meeting you for some time, Mr. Reznor. While I can’t quite agree with the…sentiments of Closer, nor the atonal drone of your music, I haven’t heard such an emotionally raw record since…”
Chin stroking, eyes flung ceiling ward in thought.
“…Wham!’s Club Tropicana.”
A grimace. Trent grinned.
The door opened. Gary, Alain, Spencer and Boz returned with drinks, and took themselves off to a corner to tend to their instruments. Their laughter was loud and jocular, discussion topics included the whereabouts of Spencer’s black t-shirt (Morrissey knew), who that greasy-looking bloke with Morrissey was (Boz-“Nine Inch who?”), and whether sausages or bacon were better. Rolling his eyes at a discussion about meat taking place so near to him, Morrissey suggested that Trent join him in his hotel room for some food, drink and “whatever else two men like us get up to.”
Morrissey’s driver gave Trent a wary glance in the rearview mirror. He supposed wearing a t-shirt with the Closer rhesus on it might not have been the best choice for a Morrissey gig.
Morrissey said nothing; he merely gazed out the window at the lights of LA whirring past. Trent felt uncomfortable; he was relieved when the Mercedes pulled up outside Morrissey’s hotel ten minutes later.
They strode into reception. Trent was used to attracting attention, but couldn’t help but be surprised at the way normally cool Angelenos watched his companion; their eyes took in the confident stride, the piercing eyes, the giant chin, and then flickered over Trent almost as an afterthought. And half of these people don’t even know who he is.
Bypassing the bar, Morrissey walked straight to a lift, and waited patiently for an empty one. They jumped in and silence ensued. Trent was about to say something about David Bowie, but his thoughts were put out of his mind by the ping of the lift, announcing that they’d reached Morrissey’s floor. Morrissey opened his hotel room with a plastic card that took him three tries to get right-“what’s wrong with brass keys?”-and they stepped into a magisterial suite.
Immediately Morrissey kicked his boots off and sank into a cream sofa. Trent stood for a moment longer, scratching his head as he took in the surreal moment. Morrissey waved a hand at the sofa.
“Sit please and tell me, what brought a gentleman like you to my show?” Morrissey said, a stress on the word gentleman making it seem obvious that the singer didn’t quite think that gentle had anything to do with the dark haired man. Trent sat down, shifting so that he could speak better with Morrissey.
“I’m sorry; it’s just a bit surreal to me. I listened to you while I was in college, now here I am.” Why the hell was he feeling so nervous around this man, when normally he felt quite comfortable inside his own skin, no matter where he was?
“Yes, here you are. Would you like something to drink perhaps?” Trent nodded as he tried to find his voice again as Morrissey strode over to a table with various ‘goodies’ that the hotel had graciously provided. As he mixed some drinks together for the both of them he called over his shoulder to Trent.
“So, you listened to The Smiths. I must say you would have had a dreadful time at college listening to all of that noise. I hope you enjoy the newer music better.” Trent didn’t reply at first, not until Morrissey handed him a drink and he had taken a sip.
“Actually, it fit quite well into how I felt, but the newer music is good as well. I have no particular preference to The Smiths or the newer, solo work. I like the way you work though.”
“The way I work?” Morrissey asked as he sank back down onto the small sofa, facing Trent.
“It’s just you have a very cohesive group together. I guess you could say I envy that at times. All your band mates seem to genuinely like to hang out together just because they are friends.” Trent explained. Morrissey cocked his head to the side and gave a small grin.
“Cohesive is one way to put it.”
Note: This was reposted from here. I am unsure why this was abandoned by me, aside from I probably thought it was shite, which is my current reaction to re-reading this.
Rating: PG Pairing: Morrissey/Trent Reznor
Summary: Trent Reznor decides to pay a visit to a music idol of his.
darkbloom and myself have been working on a little project involving Morrissey and the oh so sexy Trent Reznor (of Nine Inch Nails)
Set during Vauxhall and I era for the Moz, co-ensiding with The Downward Spiral for Trent..
-
Trent stared out at the stage from his spot at the side of the stage, stationed near a bored looking audio assistant. He had arrived half an hour after the show started, preferring to sneak in while the band was already onstage instead of hanging about while they were waiting to go out to play. He shifted slightly as he leaned against a metal rack of equipment, dark hair falling partly in his face as he watched the man on stage reaching out to his fans, coyly encouraging them to join him on stage. He smiled slightly as one fan did manage to get past security and onto the stage, nearly squashing the singer onstage in their enthusiasm to hug the man. A few security guards rushed out from the wings where Trent was standing the remove the overeager fan from the stage.
“It’s like clockwork every time.”
“What?” Trent turned his head to look at the audio assistant, who had spoken.
“The fans, they rush the stage, trying to get up, trying so hard. They finally get there only to be removed from the stage, from the theatre. It’s futile to want something you know you can’t have.” The man explained. Trent thought on the comment for a moment, his noise of assent was lost in the noise of the crowd as another song started. Strange that the man could make a comment that was so seemingly mundane, looking at one subject and unknowingly state his own dilemma.
Why was he here? Because he had wanted to meet a man he had admired for so long? Maybe, but there was still something else. Sure, he had the privilege to go backstage, wait in the wings during the concert, get the VIP treatment, but in reality, he was probably better suited to be out amongst the fans in the front row, trying to get closer to something they dreamed about.
He huffed as he crossed his arms, head tilting forward to hide his face behind a curtain of jet black hair. And he stood there, watching, waiting. He pushed away from the rack he was leaning against, feeling suddenly antsy as it was obvious that the performance onstage was about to end. He paced for a moment as he watched the singer onstage writhe on the floor of the stage, his shirt in shreds, bunches of flowers being tossed onto the stage, some not quite making it and falling short of the stage, to be picked up by other fans to be thrown.
“I don’t belong here.” He muttered to himself. The audio assistant gave him a puzzled look as Trent turned from the side of the stage, heading further backstage, away from the noise and color. He was the flip side of the coin of what was on that stage. Melancholy and sadness were certainly in evidence, but while the singer onstage preferred softer, lighter ways to express it, the singer backstage was the darker, grittier side of that coin. He was so lost within his own musings as he wandered he didn’t even hear the band say goodnight, the singer saying his goodbyes, and the sudden rush of activity around him as things moved backstage. He was shoved and elbowed by a massive security guy before he ended up wedged into the dressing room with a couple of photographers and a few of the members of the band.
“Fucking hell you great big walking wall.” Trent cursed at the man who didn’t even seem to react.
“Aw, don’t be bothered by him, the wanker’s a total idiot,” one of the guys said, as Trent made a face, massaging an arm that had got banged up while he got shoved around. The man who had spoken offered his hand.
“Name’s Gaz. I don’t remember seeing you before the show but I recognize ya, got a name, mate?” Trent gave the security man a nasty look but left off without comment before turning his entire attention to Gaz.
“Yeah, Trent,” he said as he shook Gary’s hand, giving the bassist a smile.
“Oh, yeah, that’s it; you’re from that band, whatsit... um…” Gary replied as his face lit up, and then became puzzled as he tried to think.
“Nine Inch Nails. Yeah, that’s me.” Trent laughed as the rest of the group came into the room, Gary deciding to take up introducing Trent to the rest of them.
“Boz, Alain, this is Trent from that group Nine Inch Nails.” Gary introduced as the two came in, Trent offering his hand, shaking with the two.
“Hi there,” he said softly with a smile before turning to Alain as he asked a question.
“So what brings you here?”
“I just wanted to watch the show really but I got here a bit late. So I just came backstage to watch. Been a fan of the Smiths for a long time, you guys were great too.” Trent replied.
A downward smile, shy. Could this really be the man who Trent had seen dancing wildly and ripping off colorful shirts just a short while ago? Alain and Gary excused themselves to go to the bar, closing the door behind them. And then they were alone. The dressing room was plain. No great demands, but, Trent noted with fascination, several different varieties of tea. He examined a teal-blue teapot, a silver tea strainer, forgetting his host. Morrissey reminded Trent of his presence with a soft chuckle.
Trent looked up, embarrassed and surprised at Morrissey, who was watching him with a slightly wry smile. Arms folded and totally self-possessed. Could this really be the man who’d been so shy moments ago? Trent was fascinated.
Trent attempted to regain some ground.
“Is tea the Brit equivalent of coke and hookers?”
“How could one ever compare the sensual pleasures of tea to those dull pursuits?”
Hand brushed through the quiff, smirk at own joke.
“Of course I have been looking forward to meeting you for some time, Mr. Reznor. While I can’t quite agree with the…sentiments of Closer, nor the atonal drone of your music, I haven’t heard such an emotionally raw record since…”
Chin stroking, eyes flung ceiling ward in thought.
“…Wham!’s Club Tropicana.”
A grimace. Trent grinned.
The door opened. Gary, Alain, Spencer and Boz returned with drinks, and took themselves off to a corner to tend to their instruments. Their laughter was loud and jocular, discussion topics included the whereabouts of Spencer’s black t-shirt (Morrissey knew), who that greasy-looking bloke with Morrissey was (Boz-“Nine Inch who?”), and whether sausages or bacon were better. Rolling his eyes at a discussion about meat taking place so near to him, Morrissey suggested that Trent join him in his hotel room for some food, drink and “whatever else two men like us get up to.”
Morrissey’s driver gave Trent a wary glance in the rearview mirror. He supposed wearing a t-shirt with the Closer rhesus on it might not have been the best choice for a Morrissey gig.
Morrissey said nothing; he merely gazed out the window at the lights of LA whirring past. Trent felt uncomfortable; he was relieved when the Mercedes pulled up outside Morrissey’s hotel ten minutes later.
They strode into reception. Trent was used to attracting attention, but couldn’t help but be surprised at the way normally cool Angelenos watched his companion; their eyes took in the confident stride, the piercing eyes, the giant chin, and then flickered over Trent almost as an afterthought. And half of these people don’t even know who he is.
Bypassing the bar, Morrissey walked straight to a lift, and waited patiently for an empty one. They jumped in and silence ensued. Trent was about to say something about David Bowie, but his thoughts were put out of his mind by the ping of the lift, announcing that they’d reached Morrissey’s floor. Morrissey opened his hotel room with a plastic card that took him three tries to get right-“what’s wrong with brass keys?”-and they stepped into a magisterial suite.
Immediately Morrissey kicked his boots off and sank into a cream sofa. Trent stood for a moment longer, scratching his head as he took in the surreal moment. Morrissey waved a hand at the sofa.
“Sit please and tell me, what brought a gentleman like you to my show?” Morrissey said, a stress on the word gentleman making it seem obvious that the singer didn’t quite think that gentle had anything to do with the dark haired man. Trent sat down, shifting so that he could speak better with Morrissey.
“I’m sorry; it’s just a bit surreal to me. I listened to you while I was in college, now here I am.” Why the hell was he feeling so nervous around this man, when normally he felt quite comfortable inside his own skin, no matter where he was?
“Yes, here you are. Would you like something to drink perhaps?” Trent nodded as he tried to find his voice again as Morrissey strode over to a table with various ‘goodies’ that the hotel had graciously provided. As he mixed some drinks together for the both of them he called over his shoulder to Trent.
“So, you listened to The Smiths. I must say you would have had a dreadful time at college listening to all of that noise. I hope you enjoy the newer music better.” Trent didn’t reply at first, not until Morrissey handed him a drink and he had taken a sip.
“Actually, it fit quite well into how I felt, but the newer music is good as well. I have no particular preference to The Smiths or the newer, solo work. I like the way you work though.”
“The way I work?” Morrissey asked as he sank back down onto the small sofa, facing Trent.
“It’s just you have a very cohesive group together. I guess you could say I envy that at times. All your band mates seem to genuinely like to hang out together just because they are friends.” Trent explained. Morrissey cocked his head to the side and gave a small grin.
“Cohesive is one way to put it.”
Note: This was reposted from here. I am unsure why this was abandoned by me, aside from I probably thought it was shite, which is my current reaction to re-reading this.