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He remembered him.
Remembered the smell of him, the stripped finish of his guitar nudging his lips. The way those eyes flipped amusement at him through sweat soaked lashes and the edges of blonde fringe, and the thunder of the music through his body. The strings sending the tickle of airborne vibration across his throat. Heat from the lights and heat from his skin all wrapped up together in one pounding flash that had his blood boiling in his veins.
God, how he’d wanted him. Wanted and wanted and wanted. Before Mick desire had just been a word; now it was something solid, a palpable force that drove him every day, drove his creativity, drove his music and his ambition and drove him crazy.
But not Mick. Ah, no - Mick would eye him with amusement and say in his harsh accent, so much more grit to it than the softer lilt of the dales:
“Save it for the fanboys, mate.”
- and off he’d go with a groupie or a pint or... yeah.
Christ, he’d wanted him. So badly. Badly enough that he’d follow him, say outrageous things to make him laugh, get between Mick and the women that swarmed. Anything to get a smile. Anything to bring the gleam of his glorious attention.
He stretched, heard the creak of the leather chair beneath him and had to smile; once, luxury like this had been unheard of for them. It had been all small halls and cold vans and hauling their own gear; hard to believe, sometimes. But Mick had stayed behind in that world, albeit as a respected and seasoned warrior, someone that had been there and almost made it....
Left behind.
David drifted his eyes shut, let the cigarette smoke curl up from between his lips.
Of course he’d left him behind. He’d offered - begged - but nope, Mister Northern Boy had refused.
“Give it a rest, mate. All for the ladies, me!”
Bastard. Irrepressible, stubborn, beautiful bastard.
Memories drove him to his feet, out of the chair and through the apartment. Cigarette smoke trailed behind him, mixed with regret and the faint, faded sense of rejection that he had - he thought - come to terms with long ago. Only rejection is never easy, is it? You never quite forget the sting of it, no matter how long it’s been. Once, just once, he thought he’d had him....
Darkness wreathed around his legs as he made a vain attempt to walk away from that night, paced the apartment and ground his teeth.
I don’t want to remember you now. Go away.
Late night, too much alcohol, one line too many - and there he’d been, sprawled out on a tatty sofa in the whispering quiet of a scruffy dressing room. He could see the paint peeling from the walls, smell the damp, and all of a sudden he was there, years ago and far away in England in the winter and I don’t want to be here!
Ah, he smiled as he played - like an angel, albeit one with some terribly bad habits - and for once, just this once, he hadn’t said no.
Limbs twined, and cheap nylon (looked like satin under stage light, it did) slid and squeaked under the pressure of their bodies. He’d been breathing too fast, he remembered, panting, and Mick had chuckled under his breath when they’d come up for air. God, how those eyes had sparkled, the humour dark in them beneath half-lowered lashes.
“Easy, Davey,” he’d murmured, and then they’d clashed again and it was Heaven.
What had broken them apart? He couldn’t remember now. Could have been anything; someone yelling that it was time to go, a cleaner making their dreary way around with clank of bucket, squelch of mop. Anything. But Mick had hoisted his trousers, winked at him and then shook his head.
“Dunno what you see in it, mate,” he’d said, and made his way unsteadily out of the room.
That sofa had smelled of piss and vomit when he’d buried his face in it. He could still feel the rasp of stubble on his cheek, and his lips burned with the ghost of the pressure and the warm slide of the other man’s mouth. His body shook from the sheer want of it all, and he’d made - he remembered now - a noise in his throat like an animal, something small and hurt that had crawled into a corner to die.
He hadn’t felt it, then. The desire and the heat that burned him from the inside. The emotion - yes, the love, as fucked up as that might seem - that drove him so hard. He hadn’t felt it at all, and as the rest of the world filtered back in to his consciousness David listened to the sound of the walls falling down inside his head.
He shook himself, blinked at the cold morning outside the apartment window. Back to the moment, then. There were decisions to make, travel plans.
Or not.
Maybe he should stay here, hide in the life he’d built after Mick.
Feet tapped against the coolness of the wooden floor, and he was surprised to find himself moving again; his body, it seemed, had taken on a life of its own. Never mind what he wanted, it wanted to pace and - ah, no. Not here. Maybe the kitchen, find a nice little bottle of something?
His fingers were shaking, he noticed. The paper of the fax rattled between them, and no matter how hard he tried to look away he couldn’t help but read the words again. The words that told him that it was, finally, over. All over and gone and nothing would ever come of it, now. Not that he’d thought it would, and it was closure, in a way... but perhaps if he’d seen him one last time, once more, heard that laugh and looked into those eyes even for the briefest of moments--
There was something stuck in his throat. It was thick and furry and it tasted bitter. Regret, perhaps.
Grief.
He was gone, and nothing else could ever come of it now.
“I always did have rotten taste, Mick,” he said, and even his voice sounded wrong. Light and breathy, and he stumbled over the words even as the light blurred on the paper he crumpled between his fingers. “Always fell for the straight boys, didn’t I?”
He closed his eyes, and let the memories sweep over him once more to bury him in loss.
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