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"John, god damnit!" Sterling hissed over the feedback.
John sniffed, and took an unsteady step backwards from the pedal. "I don't need your good opinion."
The crowd was irritated and antsy, and the tension on the stage was causing a stir. Lou's eyes flicked uncertainly to Sterling. He looked hurt, holding his shoulders hunched.
"Go, man. Play. Jesus, what have I gotta do?"
Sterl flicked his finger against a string, pressing it against a callous on his index finger. Satisfied with his compliance, Lou turned his back on them all, keeping his eyes low and dark behind sunglasses. "This is called The Gift. It's about a guy and his piece of shit girlfriend."
The music began gathering force and drowned him out. John began reciting the story, and Lou prickled when he tripped up over a line. His performance was interior; he played the part perfectly careless, bobbing his head like a draught horse. The stage was ill-lit, and felt curiously empty without Warhol's entourage. He was still wired.
The song gathered pace, Moe beating the drums like an erratic heartbeat to keep pace with the boys as they bristled against one another. John's eyes lit up, savouring the bloodiness of the conclusion, showing his teeth and he bit off each word.
The crowd dissipated, confused. Lou lay down his guitar near John and caught his eye.
"I'm going to get you for this," Lou purred.
John's smile was mean, and barely perceptible.
The noise of the room died down and Moe caught Sterling's eye. "Let's get a beer."
Sterl cast a sulky look back at the stage and Moe made a clunky effort to jump on his back. His face broke into a smile. Moe stared back, looking at his brown eyes, patchy skin. He shook his hair over his eyes self-consciously.
"You shmuck," she said sweetly. "Am I gonna have to kick your ass?"
"Let's just." He paused, nervous. "Let's get the hell outta here before he starts."
"No! There's no fucking way," Sterl shouted through the hotel door. "Screw you John."
John beat at the door and there was a sound of broken glass, and swearing.
Moe gripped a beer bottle between her knees, and burped roundly.
"You deserve each other. Hear that!" Sterling treasured his moment of bravado and turned up the record player.
"Oh man." Moe put a hand to her mouth and missed. "We're gonna be in trouble tomorrow. Oh man, ha. Oh, Shit."
"You ruined the set! They're gonna think we're amateurs. Think we don't know what we're doing."
"I am a musician, Lewis." John sank bonelessly into a chair. "And it was your fault for getting that regulation, bullshit, equipment."
"Yeah, you can get whatever you take." Lou smiled, then kicked open his suitcase, pissily.
"I'm not perfectly satisfied with our present circum-present," John flicked his wrist impatiently. "Bottle.'
Lou's smile soured, and he reached into the suitcase, throwing the bottle to John before he claimed it. His ears were still ringing. "Where did you get that shit, man? I need a poke. I don't give a shit what they cut it with." His posture was threatening.
John recognised the bait and took it, with pleasure. "He left."
Lou unbuttoned his shirt, and John looked at the carpet, glaring. He pulled out a thick leopard print jacket and draped it around his shoulders. "Light me a smoke."
Before he could think to refuse, John walked to the bed and started rolling a cigarette, forgetting the bottle. When he looked back, Lou was holding cheap, sparkly earrings in one hand, turning them in the light.
"Diamonds are a girl's best friend, John honey," he drawled in a honeyed tone.
Fixed by the light on the earrings, and the complete strangeness of the situation, John didn't move, as Lou advanced. Taking advantage of the weak state, Lou crawled on the bed, twisting and mewing, watching John's eyelids flutter.
"Hurry! Hurry! The captain is coming!" Lou made his mouth into a perfect blow up doll "O", then laughed snidely. "C'mere."
John's movements mellowed. He let himself be pulled onto the bed, undressed, violated. His voice was slurred, but his eyes were wide, lashes thick with exhaustion. "What was? You put something. That wine."
"Shh, shut it. John, c'mon. Hey, you're tired. You took too much. Who knows what they put in that, right? Aw, shit."
Lou pulled him onto the bed, unbuttoning his shirt and pinching hard and kissing harder at John's skin, indiscriminately. He held his breath as the skin changed, rosy and pale. John struggled for a moment, a last drowning movement, messy and desperate. He climbed over him, riding the spasm.
Lou gasped as John's arm flung out, hitting him full in the face. "You fucker. You ratbastard."
He wiped the trace of blood and spat at him on the bed, wasted and lean.
"You ruin everything." Lou hissed into his ear, brushing aside the unwashed hair. "You need me. John. John? Cale, goddamn."
John's breathing slowed, snuffling from his nose.
"You want this. I know it, when we're playing. I always know it. You're just too fucking square to...know it." Lou's voice was insistent. He pressed his face close to Cale's pigeon chest. Cale coughed a breath, then rolled on his side, snorting as Lou's coat met his nostrils.
John's lips paled, and his teeth met. Lou tucked the coat over them, cocking his head to rest on Cale's shoulder. "You know when I was young, I mean, in high school, man. I wanted to play football. Oh, yeah I was going to be a jock. Get lost." He ran a finger over John's ribs, pulling his fingers lower, jabbing at his hips, under his jeans. Worrying at the skin. Lou resisted the urge to press himself into John's side, bruise his skin with his fingers. He splayed his fingers against his cock, and breathed in John's neck. "Living the American dream, you and me," Lou said, bitterly.
"You're so fucking repressed, you might as well go back to England."
"Wales."
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