Writing Challenge
Title: Tommy Can You Hear Me?
Rating: PG
Pairings: Pete/Roger
Word Count: 660 (one of the shortest things I've ever written)
Warnings: Implied relationships, slight language, oblivious Roger
Disclaimer: I don't on the Who, unfortunately.
First time I've written Who slash; be gentle.
Pete stared at the ceiling of his hotel. It had been a long day and oddly, he was not tired. He’d been up straight for many hours on end and it felt like such of a marathon in a way. It was a lagging and slow day where people just want to drop dead. Pete flexed his fingers and drew his arms up to place them behind his head.
The last few days had been tiresome and long, filled with no moments of relaxation and Pete was feeling tense; pent up with frustration that felt as though it would flow from his pores. He gnawed on his lip in contemplation. Pete liked to think himself as a very subtle person: he gave hints in his music and lyrics about things that were shrouded and took time to decipher, he could drop a thought or sentence that veiled another meaning, and so on to his wit. But he liked to think of himself as sophisticated.
This all was drowned out horribly in the last few days. For a while now, Pete had been facing a problem: he felt attracted to someone. Oddly, he wondered if it wasn’t just admiration. But as the years went on he couldn’t deny his ever loving feelings to his singer: Roger Daltrey. That boy had a magical aura; a glow that Pete found himself allured to. Pete was afraid of how Roger would react if Pete told him, yet he felt a sense of courage in wanting to be very open to Roger.
Over the time they were together, Pete thought he could take it slow and let Roger know. Many situations would arise:
“Hey Pete? D’you think we should go through with a sequence like this?” Roger asked, pointing at a piece of paper.
Pete would stroll over to Roger and get behind him, leaning down and slinging an arm across his shoulders, giving a light squeeze. Roger had said nothing. Pete waited for when Roger would comply or react to how close Pete was in his space. Roger, oblivious to what Pete had in mind, had lifted up the sheet with chords, guitar sequences, and had questioned Pete about the lyrics.
Pete then leaned of him, leaving his arm to softly graze over Roger’s shoulders, yet he never elicited a reaction; nothing that would make Roger burst out. All he got was, ‘Thanks Pete’ and Roger didn’t say anything.
From then on, Pete dropped hints, or at least tried. Roger, being oblivious like he was, never noticed. Pete was bewildered to how Roger couldn’t recognize any of it. It left him to try harder but Roger, being oblivious to his advancements, never noticed. Even in a drunken stupor, Pete would come on to him, but Roger declined him, saying he was ‘drunk and out of your fucking bloody mind.’ The final straw was when Pete patted Roger’s ass and he thought he would be able to get the singers attention.
Roger, with much longer hair, had looked at him and Pete was sure it had worked to his advantage and got Roger’s attention. All that was hopelessly gunned down when Roger only laughed. Pete was sure he could feel a twitch in his eye. He turned around and nearly slammed his forehead into the table. God, Roger could have been King Oblivious to Oblivious Kingdom. Pete let out a rough sigh.
Finally when he sat in a studio room, Pete was struck with a block of creativity. He wanted to create something that would go down in rock history, but he couldn’t figure what it was. He needed to find some inspiration. Then he looked at Roger who was sleeping, oblivious to the fact that Keith was pouring something in Roger’s hand. Like a wrecking ball hitting him, he was struck. Those many times when Roger never noticed. Pete drew from that and began to pour out his imagination onto the paper below him.
Rating: PG
Pairings: Pete/Roger
Word Count: 660 (one of the shortest things I've ever written)
Warnings: Implied relationships, slight language, oblivious Roger
Disclaimer: I don't on the Who, unfortunately.
First time I've written Who slash; be gentle.
Pete stared at the ceiling of his hotel. It had been a long day and oddly, he was not tired. He’d been up straight for many hours on end and it felt like such of a marathon in a way. It was a lagging and slow day where people just want to drop dead. Pete flexed his fingers and drew his arms up to place them behind his head.
The last few days had been tiresome and long, filled with no moments of relaxation and Pete was feeling tense; pent up with frustration that felt as though it would flow from his pores. He gnawed on his lip in contemplation. Pete liked to think himself as a very subtle person: he gave hints in his music and lyrics about things that were shrouded and took time to decipher, he could drop a thought or sentence that veiled another meaning, and so on to his wit. But he liked to think of himself as sophisticated.
This all was drowned out horribly in the last few days. For a while now, Pete had been facing a problem: he felt attracted to someone. Oddly, he wondered if it wasn’t just admiration. But as the years went on he couldn’t deny his ever loving feelings to his singer: Roger Daltrey. That boy had a magical aura; a glow that Pete found himself allured to. Pete was afraid of how Roger would react if Pete told him, yet he felt a sense of courage in wanting to be very open to Roger.
Over the time they were together, Pete thought he could take it slow and let Roger know. Many situations would arise:
“Hey Pete? D’you think we should go through with a sequence like this?” Roger asked, pointing at a piece of paper.
Pete would stroll over to Roger and get behind him, leaning down and slinging an arm across his shoulders, giving a light squeeze. Roger had said nothing. Pete waited for when Roger would comply or react to how close Pete was in his space. Roger, oblivious to what Pete had in mind, had lifted up the sheet with chords, guitar sequences, and had questioned Pete about the lyrics.
Pete then leaned of him, leaving his arm to softly graze over Roger’s shoulders, yet he never elicited a reaction; nothing that would make Roger burst out. All he got was, ‘Thanks Pete’ and Roger didn’t say anything.
From then on, Pete dropped hints, or at least tried. Roger, being oblivious like he was, never noticed. Pete was bewildered to how Roger couldn’t recognize any of it. It left him to try harder but Roger, being oblivious to his advancements, never noticed. Even in a drunken stupor, Pete would come on to him, but Roger declined him, saying he was ‘drunk and out of your fucking bloody mind.’ The final straw was when Pete patted Roger’s ass and he thought he would be able to get the singers attention.
Roger, with much longer hair, had looked at him and Pete was sure it had worked to his advantage and got Roger’s attention. All that was hopelessly gunned down when Roger only laughed. Pete was sure he could feel a twitch in his eye. He turned around and nearly slammed his forehead into the table. God, Roger could have been King Oblivious to Oblivious Kingdom. Pete let out a rough sigh.
Finally when he sat in a studio room, Pete was struck with a block of creativity. He wanted to create something that would go down in rock history, but he couldn’t figure what it was. He needed to find some inspiration. Then he looked at Roger who was sleeping, oblivious to the fact that Keith was pouring something in Roger’s hand. Like a wrecking ball hitting him, he was struck. Those many times when Roger never noticed. Pete drew from that and began to pour out his imagination onto the paper below him.